


À Travers le Passé, Obscurément

by Gairid



Series: Odyssey [7]
Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Drama, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gairid/pseuds/Gairid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Continuation of the Odyssey series; in this episode, Louis sees someone who brings back his long ago mortal past back into focus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A-Hunting They Have Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [For Stellie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=For+Stellie).



> This part of the ongoing story takes place in 2003 or thereabouts, so references to technology are necessarily dated. There are no references to Smartphones or texting and all the now-ubiquitous social media venues, but lots of e-mail refs, actual snail-mail and check writing.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Lestat de Lioncourt and Louis de Pointe du Lac and the title _The Vampire Chronicles_ are the sole creation and property of Anne Rice and her publishers; no profit has been made from this writing. As always, written for love, not money.

**À Travers le Passé, Obscurément**

**~Chapter One~**

**(Louis)**

“Oh, you did not just ruin this jacket!” Lestat cried in an outraged voice. I felt the bullet whiz by me after it had passed through him, leaving a good sized hole in his back just beneath his ribs. I heard myself snarling.

The man who had caused the damage wasted no time at all being amazed at Lestat’s apparent aggravation at the holes in his jacket; he merely cursed and aimed the gun to fire again. Too late. To his eye Lestat had seemingly disappeared and what happened next was swift and every bit as lethal as the would-be killer’s weapon. Lestat reached around from behind the man to snatch the gun from his hand and I heard the snap of bone. The man’s violent struggling did him no good at all and Lestat tore the throat from him with a hoarse cry.

I stood transfixed, the scent of his blood and the blood of the mortal overpowering in the humid air. Lestat drained him quickly, his hands brutal, tearing flesh and pulverizing bone as he fed, caught up in the kill. He’d sunk to his knees as he drank and when he raised his head, I extended my hand. He took it and I pulled him to his feet--his mouth dripped with gore and his eyes were wide and dilated.

There were several people peering from window above us and a car squealed to a stop at the curb, the occupants shouting and swearing. More weapons. I was unwilling to see Lestat injured again and so I pulled him with me. We were blocks away before the would-be avengers were aware of what had happened. Lestat threw his arms about my neck, laughing maniacally.

“Louis! Ah, what fun! But the jacket--you only just gave it to me.” Lestat growled as I searched the exit wound with my fingers. It was knitting quickly, hardly as gaping as it had been only a few minutes earlier. He took a step back and lifted the edge of the jacket to survey the damage. “You know, if he hadn’t pissed me off so much, I would have torn his liver out before his eyes!” He snarled. He poked a finger through one of the holes and eyed it balefully.

“You always let your appetites rule you, my love.” I chided. “And I’ve told you; firearms are so destructive.”

I’d felt a similar urge to show the shooter a few of his vital organs before he succumbed just because he had marred the perfection of my beloved. I licked my fingers and shivered at the taste of him. The wail of sirens grew wincingly loud and an ambulance and a police car howled past us. When the shrieking faded somewhat Lestat grinned.

“Not a very good job of getting rid of that body.” He said, leaning against me again. He nosed his way under my hair and I arched to him with a soft growl.

“Careless.” I agreed. I reached to grasp his shoulders and pushed him against the wall. Our teeth clashed as I took his mouth in a rough kiss, biting into his tongue. He made a shuddery little sound and I felt his arms come around my back. “Very careless.” I repeated when I finally released him, dizzy with the taste of him in my mouth.

Lestat stayed where he was against the wall, watching me with glittering eyes. A small rill of blood stained the corner of his mouth and his shirt beneath the jacket was saturated with it. _"Et si nous rentrions à la maison?"_ He asked. His body swayed seductively.

I took his hand.

**(Lestat)**

"Oh my god." Brian muttered. He’d come out of the office when he heard us coming up the stairs. “Now what?”

“A little run in with a handgun.” I said, tossing the ruined jacket at him. He caught it distractedly, eying my bloodied shirt with a mixture of anxiety and vague hunger. “Nothing too bad. It itches abominably, though.” 

“Itches.” Brian repeated in a flat tone, still staring. He’d noticed the blood on my hands.

“Come, now,” Louis said silkily, “It’s not as though you haven’t seen a good deal of blood here before.” 

Louis pulled the shirt from me, tearing the saturated fabric easily and rubbing it across his face as he walked past Brian. He went into the parlor. I poked at the deep red flesh beneath my lowest rib. It had already closed itself. I wasn’t so sure about the exit wound.

“What does the back look like? “ I asked Brian, turning around.

“Still pretty torn up,” he said in strange voice. “But I don’t think it’s bleeding anymore. Kinda hard to tell. I’ll get you a towel.”

“Don’t bother.” Louis called from the parlour. “I will attend to him. Come to me, Lestat,”

I turned to Brian and smiled. “Thanks anyway.” I said, taking his hand. I drew it around my waist and across the wound in my back. I let him go and he looked at his bloody fingers. “Were there any messages?”

“What?” 

“Messages.” I said, patiently. “Anything important?” He was holding one of the white lined pads of paper he generally used to make note of things he wished to tell me.

“Oh.” He tore his eyes from his glistening fingers, hesitating only a moment. “No. Nothing important.” He grinned back at me. “You shouldn’t make him wait. He seems a little edgy.” 

“Edgy.” I agreed. “He’s hungry.”

I left the room. Hungry. Yes, he was hungry. I could see it in his eyes, fierce hunger and a rising need for blood.  
“Turn around, my love.” Louis said thickly. I did and I felt his hands at my hips, pushing me forward until I was bent over the arm of the couch. 

“Still bleeding, Lestat--only just,” he muttered, standing behind me. He leaned forward and I felt the first questing sweep of his tongue below the wound. I let my weight settle and willed my muscles to relax somewhat. He ran his tongue over me repeatedly, the tiny barbs lapping up my spilled blood, spiraling closer to the wound with each pass. I could hear the rumbling contented purr coming from him, though the same could not be said of me; I was excited beyond belief and it was all I could do to remain still. 

It’s what he wanted of me, you see; to remain still. To anticipate. He didn’t say these things, but it was there in the pressure of his hand on my back, at once calming and commanding. It was there in the considered and measured movement of tongue and lips over my flesh and the small sounds he made, signals that held me.

There was painful sensation when Louis probed the healing wound and his rumbling purr grew louder when he reopened the newly closed flesh and drank from me for a moment, hot blood spurting as opposed to that cooling on my skin. I felt in him the trembling thrum of his heightened arousal as his hands traveled slowly from my hips up over my ribs and then around my middle. 

The slow, deliberate slip and scrape of his tongue continued, stealing my breath so that I found myself panting harshly. My only movement was the involuntary clenching and unclenching of my fingers. He licked the injured area gently and did not pierce the tender flesh again, though I waited with each sweep for the breach. The pressure was intense, the need to feel his skin against mine excruciating. He was still fully dressed, his body molded to mine as he continued lapping at my flesh. His hair, dragging across my back, sent little shocks of pleasure though me. I groaned his name.

“What is it, love?” He whispered. His fingers moved up my chest and he found my nipple. “Are you poised there on the fine edge? You must step back and wait for me.” He twisted the hard little nub sharply, grinding his hips against me. When I tried to move back, he pinched me again. “You must step back.” He said again.

He rose up from his position over me and stepped back. I waited, breathless, feeling the burn of his eyes on my naked back, chafing at the blood-soaked jeans. 

“Your flesh,” he said in a low, carrying voice. “I crave every cell, Lestat. You are swept clean, and I feel your life inside me. Stand and let me look at you.”

**(Brian)**

Lestat left the room and I raised my hand to look again at the crimson gift he’d once again so casually given me. After I had licked each finger clean I stepped into the hallway and glanced across into the parlour. They were not in my direct line of sight but before I could take another step the front bell chimed and I froze momentarily. As expected, neither Louis nor Lestat acknowledged it; I heard only a steady, low growl and some whispered words. I went downstairs and opened the door.

“Hello Brian. Mind if we come in for a minute?” I shrugged and let Officers Chaisson and Dufrene in. They made periodic visits and I knew John Chaisson casually on a personal level. 

“What is it now?” I asked. “No noise tonight. So far, anyway.”

“No, we didn’t get a complaint. There was a shooting over near Desire a while ago.” Chaisson informed me.

“Imagine that.” I said dryly. “Come on in to the kitchen.”

They sat at the small table and I gave them each a can of Dr. Pepper. “It’s not the shooting that was out of the ordinary.” Fred Dufrene said, popping the top of his can. “It was the body. We went over to see what was going on.” 

“Desire’s out of your district isn’t it?” I asked. I knew it was, but the game must be played.

“Yeah, well. You know.” John answered, giving me a significant look. “We’ve had a quiet watch tonight for a change.”

“The thing about the body was this there was no gunshot wound, just a nice big hole in the guy’s neck and lacerations on his back. Looks like he had a couple broken bones too, but hardly any blood anywhere. We don’t come across something like that too often, you know?” Fred looked at me.

I nodded. “How’s your mother doing, Fred? She like it up at that new place she’s living?” I asked him.  
He stared at me for a moment and then shook his head. “Come on, now, Brian. We’re having a friendly chat here. Just passing on a little information is all, no reason to get testy. I know how _les messiuers_ need a little reminder about their habits now and then.”

Officer Dufrene’s mother was an eighty year old lady living in a very upscale home for the elderly, quite a step up from the place she’d been in before, thanks to Lestat’s generosity. No one ever bantered the word ‘bribery’ around New Orleans’ finest, and hell, it was the guy’s mother, after all. That and a little Christmas present every year from Lestat and Louis were hardly on the scale of some of the scandals that department has seen in its time. 

“I’ll be sure to mention you stopped by.” I told them both earnestly.

“There’s something else.” John said. He finished his Dr. Pepper and put the empty can on the table. From above came a loud crash and the sound of something fragile shattering. Both officers were on their feet but I held up my hand. 

“Not a home invasion, trust me. Whatever is going on up there, they don’t want to be interrupted” I said emphatically. After a moment John nodded. Fred looked nervously out into the hall. “You said there was something else?”

“Yeah. This is the fourth body to turn up this way. Exsanguinated, I mean. There’s some rumbling about it downtown.” He jerked his head upward. “They gotta tone it down a little. Not that there’s a lot of grief over the newly deceased.” Their shoulder radios crackled, and Fred waved his hand to indicate that he’d take care of it. He walked a little way into the hall.

John leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Let them know, okay?” 

“Yeah, I’ll tell them. Can I ask you something?”

He glanced at the doorway. We could hear Fred speaking into the shoulder set. “What is it?”

“What’s the time frame?” I asked.

He thought about it for a minute. “About two weeks, I guess. None in the Quarter and the details haven’t made the papers. Yet.”

I nodded. “Thanks for the heads up, John. I’ll tell him.”

After they left I leaned against the door for a minute, thinking. Two weeks. I couldn’t swear to knowing their whereabouts every night, but they’d been ensconced in the house for at least half that time. There was no more noise from above and so I ventured upstairs to shut off some lights. As I suspected they had already retired to their room. In the parlour I found the source of the crash; an overturned lamp and an end table on its side. There was also a smear of blood on the arm of the couch, nothing that couldn’t wait until daylight to be seen to. I ran my fingers over the stain, but it was already dry.

**(Louis)**

Lestat rose from the prone position I’d held him in, on his feet in one sweetly liquid motion. He did not turn toward me, though I was aware of the effort it took for him to remain still. He stood with his back straight, and his head bent slightly forward so that his hair hid his neck and part of his cheek. The muscles of his back and shoulders jumped and twitched as I watched, as though feeling the weight of my scrutiny.

There was a bare movement of his head as I took a step toward him and his fingers twitched. The room seemed unbearably hot. 

“Louis.” His voice was so soft, so caressing.

“My love?” He made no answer but closed his eyes and when I took another step I could see the dark gold of his lashes lying against his cheek. “You hide yourself from me. I cannot bear it.” I murmured. The corner of his mouth rose and he unbuttoned his trousers. They were heavy with his spilled blood when he skinned out of them. “My Beauty.” I whispered. “My Angel.”

His flesh rippled and he moaned softly. I unbuttoned my shirt and dropped it to the floor. I took another step forward and his lips lifted, exposing his fangs. His fingers curled and he dug his nails into the taut flesh of his upper thighs. “Step back, my love. Step back from the edge. Wait for me.” I murmured. His fingers relaxed and he let his head loll backward so that the tendons in his neck stood out in corded, beautiful relief. His closed eyelids fluttered. My next step brought me mere inches from him and I ran my hand over the pink weal that was the gunshot wound. His scent filled my head. 

“You hide yourself from me,” he said, echoing my words. “I cannot bear it.” I slid my hands down his ribs and let them come to rest on the jut of his pelvic bone. I did not allow myself to look down as I rested my chin on his tawny shoulder.

“Yes, you can.” I said into his ear. His pale hair was as soft as a child’s. I moved my hands closer together so that my thumbs met. I closed my eyes and caressed the fine down, paying close attention to the fluttering muscles under my palms. I pressed myself tight against him and he returned the pressure, planting his feet and pushing back. He turned his head and I felt his lips against my jaw. He growled deeply.

“You’re killing me, Louis,” Lestat said with a flash of impatience. He nipped sharply at me.

“So dramatic, you,” I said, delighted with his response to our attrition. “And I love you for it.” I stepped back and he eeled around and pulled me into his arms. His sudden movement caused me to stumble slightly and the end table fell over, spilling the lamp to the floor with a crash. 

Our mouths met hungrily in a heated, protracted kiss and when we released each other at last he spoke. “No. I can’t bear it.” He licked his lips, reaching for the waistband of my pants; I stayed his hand. 

“Our bed, Lestat.” I told him lazily. “And there you can shred them from me, _oui_?”

**(Lestat)**

Louis went into our bedroom ahead of me, moving to the mantle to light the candles there, unhurried and serene. I closed the door behind me, admiring the way his jeans clung to his long legs. Shred them? Yes, I would. And then at some point I thought I’d go out and buy him several dozen more pairs because they looked so good on him. He turned to look at me, dragging one shining nail across his belly and raising a bright line of blood. He smeared it upward.

“So far away,” he said mournfully. “What are you waiting for?”

I glanced at the bed and he smiled. “I changed my mind, I think,” he said seriously. His eyes were blazing, incandescent with lust. He ran his hand over the buttons of his jeans and I felt myself jump in response. “I think you should take them from me where I stand.” 

I went to Louis and sank to my knees before him, licking the smear of blood from his belly. The little wound he’d made was already gone. Curling my fingers around the backs of his knees, I slid them slowly upwards. Louis dropped his hands upon my shoulders and I clamped my front teeth on the waistband of the low-slung jeans. My thumbs reached the curve of his ass and I pulled his thighs apart a little further. His hands tightened on my shoulders in response, and he sighed. I jerked my head backward viciously and the metal buttons broke away with absurd ease. The jeans thus loosened, I tore them from him with my hands and they slid from his hips, exposing him to my avid eye. I drew him into my mouth.

The jeans had only torn to the crotch and they’d slid halfway down his thighs. Temporarily trapped and off balance, he dug his fingers into the muscles of my shoulders and tried to push further into my mouth. I resisted the urge to suckle,instead using my tongue gently on him, lapping delicately at the silky skin. I felt the muscles in his thighs tensing as he tried to tear his way out of the confining fabric and after a moment the strained denim began to rip. I sucked on him a little harder to distract him and his hips immediately bucked forward.

“Demon.” The word was barely intelligible, torn from his mouth in a coughing little snarl. He pulled back slightly and then thrust into my mouth again, and I fastened lovingly on the hard length of him, holding his hips tight and taking over the rhythm. I suckled and licked and scraped my teeth on him and he muttered my name and growled out gutter French, staggering back awkwardly and scraping his back on the carved marble of the fireplace. 

I tasted blood, his and mine, drawn forth from the rough give and take of our passion. I moved my head back and sank one fang into him just behind the flared head of his cock and he cried out, coming forcefully into my waiting mouth, every muscle in his body taut and straining. I drank deeply and after a while he fell forward upon me and we rolled over onto the floor. I sat up and reached to tear the jeans off of him altogether and he laid back, muscles loose with satiation. Beautiful. His eyelids fluttered and he pulled me down to lie atop him.

"Louis?" I pulled his lower lip into my mouth and nibbled. 

"Mmph?"

"Where did you get those jeans?"

TBC


	2. Warm Awakenings and Peculiar Goings-on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title sort of says it all.

**~Chapter Two~**

**(Louis)**

When I awakened the next night, Lestat was still in a doze, his eyes barely open when I rolled to kiss him. He was drowsy-warm and his mouth was soft and pliant. We’d made it into the bed before the dawn claimed us .“Still sleepy, ‘Stat?” I said, nuzzling his ear.

“Mmm. Between you and getting shot, I lost a bit of blood.” He sounded supremely satisfied. I pushed the sheet down from his chest to look at him. There was no sign of the wound below his ribs at all.

“Turn over.” I said. I felt his hand snake between my thighs.

“What do you have in mind?” He opened his eyes for the first time that night and as always, I was caught in his gaze.

“I want to look at your back.” I told him with mock severity.

“And…?” He asked, feigning innocence.

I smiled at him. “Lestat, if I see your back, I will also see your ass. Roll over.” I pushed at his hip and felt him reluctantly remove his hand from between my legs. There was still a small puckered mark on his lower back and I leaned over to press a kiss to it.

“Still there,” he said, taking a little more interest. Of course it might have been because I was trailing kisses from the scarred area down to the swell of his perfect ass.

“Barely.” I replied. “It would have been worse if it hit bone.” He winced a little when I bit into the taut muscle. 

“Worse?” He said, panting lightly. I licked the small beads of blood that welled from the punctures. “A few days at most.” He thought about it. “Well, maybe more. That was some blast.”

From below we heard the back door open and close again. “Brian’s here.” Lestat said unnecessarily. He rolled over and I moved up to lie next to him. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my eyelids. “I must remember to ask him who he was talking to downstairs last night.”

I had a vague memory of the doorbell chiming the evening before. “As you say.” I had no interest regarding who it might have been, but Lestat is always curious about such things. We heard Brian come up the front stairs. He was being quiet, careful not to disturb us.

“Call him in, ‘Stat.” I said, throwing my leg across his thighs. I looked again into his eyes. Summer eyes. He quirked an eyebrow. “To satisfy your curiosity about last night, my love.”

**(Brian)**

I was surprised to hear Lestat call me so early in the evening. I’d barely begun scrolling through the emails that flooded one of many accounts since early afternoon. I went down the hall and saw the door to their room, closed when I’d come up, now stood open. “Come in, Brian.” Lestat said when I reached the door. I was looking around the room with an eye to repair, noting a splash of blood on the marble fireplace and a number of spots on the carpet. Obviously a controlled evening and I had time to wonder just who had controlled who before I finally looked at them. “Have a seat.” Lestat said with an expansive smile. He patted the mattress. From beyond him, Louis watched me with enigmatic calm, and I crossed the room with my heart racing nicely along to sit on the edge of their bed.

I am aware that Lestat finds my reactions, both voluntary and involuntary, amusing and you would think after all the time I have been with them at this point that I would have gotten used to them. Mostly, I have. For a long time I could barely look either of them in the eye, and when I would watch them it would be sidewise, or I would have to keep cutting my eyes away. It’s the unearthly beauty, yes, but they are completely unsettling to watch, with movements that are either too slow or too fast, and impossibly graceful to be human. To look into their eyes is the most disconcerting of all. And then, of course, there is sitting on their bed while they lie naked and at their ease swathed in silk and satin.

“There were visitors last night, Brian. Who was here?”

I hadn’t thought they noticed. “The police.” I said. “Not a complaint; more like a courtesy call, I guess.” Officers Chaisson and Dufrene were occasional visitors when a neighbor would call with a complaint of noise or ‘animal fights’, or a tourist would pass and note Lestat taking the air from the balcony in the altogether. Why someone would complain about that has always been beyond me, but it happens fairly often.

“Bible belt sensibilities, cher.” Louis remarked, lazily. He must have caught the image of Lestat in my head. “What did the fine officers have to say?”

“There was a shooting. The thing is, the body that was found showed no evidence of being gunshot, and so John…Officer Chaisson… thought they would perhaps remind you to use a little more discretion.” I was not as uncomfortable telling them this as I once was. We had fallen into an easy pattern of me being the one to remind them of what might not quite pass as normal human behavior even in outrageous times such as these. As far as their dining habits, they were generally careful enough not to draw attention to themselves or to involve me.

“I didn’t have time.” Lestat said, faintly irritated. “Besides, he shot me first. I hadn’t even settled on…” He waved his hand dismissively. “You know.”

“Very careless.” Louis said with a sudden smile. He moved to kiss Lestat and I watched them longingly.

“Is there more?” Lestat asked when Louis released him and he realized I was still there.

"Yeah. I found this a little strange, since I have an idea that you’ve been here a lot." I was the sudden object of nearly all their attention. 

“Well?” Louis said.

“This is the fourth body in two weeks time found exsanguinated.”

“Four?” Lestat asked. His brows tightened in a small frown. “No. Neither of us has been out for weeks. Is that right, Louis?”

“Not for that purpose.” Louis confirmed.

Lestat sat up in the bed and leaned forward. “Where?”

“Not in the Quarter.” I told him. “And when I talked to John Chaisson today, I found out there was another over in Algiers.”

They looked at each other. Louis seemed unconcerned, but I could see the agitation building in Lestat already. “Algiers.” Lestat repeated. “Perhaps I should speak to Officer Chaisson.” His voice was soft with menace.

“For what purpose, Lestat? He relayed a message to Brian. Nothing more.” Louis said reasonably.

I’d already gotten up from the edge of the mattress where I’d been sitting, certain that Lestat was going to bound from the bed, but at Louis’ calm tone he subsided, moving himself back to lean against the ornate iron headboard. “Sit down, Brian.” Louis directed. “You look pale.” 

I did as Louis said, suddenly aware that my muscles were tensed and my breathing shallow. Lestat’s building ire was a palpable thing. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “And who do you think it is, Brian? Hmm? Who would dare?” Lestat asked. The question was clearly rhetorical, for he turned back to Louis without waiting for anything I might have to say.

“What does it matter?” Louis asked, snaking his arm around Lestat’s waist and pressing his cheek to the tawny, flat belly. “So long as they leave us be?”

“They?” I said, before I could stop myself. 

“Those two. Marius’ wretched get.” Lestat said. He sounded a lot less irritated than the words might suggest, his eyes trained on the top of Louis’ dark head. He slid his hand beneath the inky strands. Storm avoided for the time being, I thought.

“I thought they were in Wales.” I said, shifting a little. Lestat glanced at me for a moment.

“Marius is in Wales,” he corrected. “Or he was. Those other two? He left them there in Metairie.” His hand moved from the back of Louis’ neck to cup his chin, thumb caressing the smooth cheek. Louis drew Lestat’s fingers into his mouth. “Had I not been so otherwise focused I might have even noticed the intrusion.”

“Not difficult to see why you might have been distracted.” I said, thickly, watching his slick fingers and Louis’ tongue. The wet sounds made me feel feverish and I could feel the subtle vibration of their combined purring. The phone in the office trilled, disorienting and alien. I stood reluctantly and went to go answer it. They noticed not at all.

**(Lestat)**

Hours later, we were nestled together in contented tangle of limbs and I had all but forgotten about Brian’s bit of news. “Persephone saw them on Bourbon Street.” Louis said from above me.

“Saw who?” I slurred. Parts of me were still shivering and tingling from our lovemaking. 

“Marius’ two. Sybele and Benji.” He snorted softly. 

I raised my head from his chest to look at him. “When?”

He pushed my head back down with a gentle hand. “When we got back from Miami.”

“You should have told me.” I said. I licked at the gleam of bloodsweat on his collarbone.

“Why?”

“You know I don’t want them here, especially attracting undue official attention.”

Louis laughed then. “I’m sure you are quite worried about being jailed for someone else’s crime.” 

It was my turn to snort. “Hardly. I don’t want anyone to interfere with us. Not them, not the NOPD.”

“My Lion.” he said with amused affection. “The police will not interfere…when have they ever? And as for them, call Marius and tell him to bring them to heel or go and warn them yourself. Kill them if you want to. They are a minor annoyance at best and you know it. You just don’t like being crossed.”

“If I kill them, I’m sure Maharet will be most annoyed.” I said, muffling a laugh in his neck.

“Undoubtedly.” Louis agreed. “You never did finish your little chat with her, after all.”

“My dressing down, you mean.” I said. “There were more important things to attend to, _mon ange_.” I said fervently.

I lifted my head from his chest once again and kissed him deeply, moving so that my body was on top of his. 

“I think, Lestat,” he rasped, “That you want to fuck me again.” 

He opened his thighs and hooked his calves around mine, grinding against me.

There were much more important things to be attended to.

TBC


	3. Visits and Conversations - Memory Awakened and Passion Released

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title summarizes well.

**~Chapter Three~**

**(Louis) >**

We were abed for several nights after that, Lestat and I, attending to those things that are important to us, fused together in an ecstasy of repletion. This night, however, I read in him a restlessness that I knew well enough. The thought of other vampires encroaching upon our territory acted like a burr under the saddle of a high-mettled horse, a niggling annoyance in the back of his mind.

“You would walk your city tonight, Lestat?” I asked him after watching him stretch his body with a protracted shiver.

“Are you throwing me out of bed?” He smiled up into my eyes when I climbed atop him and leaned down to claim his mouth. His hand came immediately around the back of my neck, fingers massaging.

“The very idea is a lance of pain, darling, as you well know.” I said, my lips still touching his. I rubbed his nose with mine.

“Lance? Well, there’s a thought.” He took me in hand and I hissed in pained pleasure. ‘Vampiric’ does not equal invulnerable, no matter how strong we have become. We use each other well, and even such as we need a little time now and again to be fully restored. Lestat smiled ruefully. “A vigorous week, oui? And I am not entirely sure I am able to walk.”

“All the more reason you should. I am tempted to accompany you if only to enjoy the view.” I meant it, too. Lestat walking after being well fucked is a treat indeed.

“Ah. You are sending me out into the dark night alone?”

“This annoyance is on your part, surely?” I pressed my finger hard against his nipple, a deep plum color and fetchingly swollen. He gasped.

“You’re right, there,” he admitted. Lestat knew full well that I could care less if an army of vampires hunted the city to deserted ruins so long as they left us alone. “Come. Pick something out for me to wear.”

**~~~~~**

Brian was sitting on his porch, speaking into his cell phone when I let myself out of the back door. I observed him as I approached silently. He was at ease, speaking in rapid, modern French to whoever was on the line with him. One of the Paris agents, I realized; he was following up a lead for a drawing I’d expressed an interest in some time back. He concluded his conversation before he knew I was near, thanking the caller for his attention. He clicked the phone closed and placed it on the little table next to the wicker couch.

He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of faded jeans. After he’d hung up the phone he took a long draught from the bottle of beer he held in his hand, settling back and tucking one foot under his thigh. I could see the dull gleam of the perforated coin on its chain around Brian’s neck, the coin that he’d found in the ruins of my first home. He had offered it to me when he realized that it had once belonged to me, but I’d told him to hold it for me. 

I scuffed my shoes in the gravel as I drew nearer so that he would hear me coming. He pulled himself up a little at the sound and smiled tentatively when he saw me, his eyes darting around the garden to see if Lestat followed.

“Hello, Louis.” Brian said. 

“Good evening, Brian. Lestat is not with me just now.” 

He nodded once and he stopped scanning the foliage and the path on which I had approached. “Have a seat,” he offered. There was a chair on the other side of the table but I chose instead to sit beside Brian. He seemed enormously pleased by this, his scent shifting pleasantly. Scent? Or the mysterious pheromones that Lestat has read to me about, I wondered idly. Possibly a combination of both, for there were distinctive odors to be sorted through when dealing with mortals. I would have to ask Lestat if these pheromones had an odor. I hadn’t followed his words so closely when he was reading, intent as I had been on the mobility of his lips and the way his hand had looked resting on the arm of the chair he’d been seated in.

I don’t know how long I sat contemplating this when I noticed once again where I was. I turned my head to see Brian waiting patiently for me to say what I had come for. “Have you heard any more news from our friends on the police force?” I asked at length.

“No, not since I spoke to you the other night.” He replied. He hesitated. 

“Yes?” I said, slightly impatient. There are time when his polite reticence tasks me, for he knows full well that I can tell when he wants to say something more and that I dislike having to draw such things forth.

“Is Lestat seeing to the…err…problem?” He asked, without further hedging.

“Possibly. I did not ask him where he was going. He will do things in his own way.” 

He smiled and the smile touched his eyes. I have noticed that speaking of Lestat…or to Lestat will bring this light into Brian’s eyes. “Like he always does.” Brian said.

I nodded. “Just so.” I said. “Do you want to know about the coin?”

He blinked stupidly for a moment, and then his face cleared and he curled his large hand around the coin.

“Yeah…I would.” he said softly.

**Narrative**

Perry stirred from sleep and sat up, thinking that her cat must have knocked something over. It wasn’t the cat; Trilby was asleep at the foot of her bed. She listened and then heard the sound again. Starting violently, her heart in her throat, she thrust the quilt aside and swung her feet to the floor. Someone was standing on her little balcony, tapping on the glass.

“Persephone?” The voice was low and carrying. A voice she knew. She walked on shaking legs to the sliders and pushed the curtain aside. 

Lestat? Disoriented, she gaped foolishly at him for a moment before unlatching the door and sliding it open.

“I’m very sorry to have frightened you,” he said. She might have believed him but for the shine of merriment in his eyes. “Perhaps I should have called first?”

Perry managed a weak laugh. “Even the doorbell has its uses,” she said, pleased that her voice did not quaver.

“ _Touché_. “May I come in?” His smile was polite and engaging.

Perry nodded once and stood aside feeling suddenly self-conscious in her t-shirt and boy shorts. Lestat stepped in and looked around. It was a good-sized room and nicely appointed. He noted several small treasures amongst her possessions, old things that had been carefully chosen for their beauty. The antique mirror that hung above her dressing table; that had been a good find, and probably worth more than she had paid for it. There were several flaws in the glass but she had not had the mirror restored. She also had an exquisite little rosewood escritoire and, set upon it, a fine brass inkwell. 

“Perhaps we can go to your kitchen? You can brew some tea, and I will take no more of your time than necessary.”

Perry took up her robe from the foot of her bed and slipped it on. She preceded him through her flat into the kitchen and stood at the sink, filling the kettle with water. Lestat sat down at the little table and she thought how incongruous the whole situation was, this apparition come suddenly to her window in the dead of night. How screamingly gothic can you get? She giggled to herself and when she glanced at Lestat he smiled at her with an air of supreme amusement.

“I do tend to overdo at times, I am told.” Lestat allowed, as though her thoughts had been spoken aloud. She put the kettle on to boil and set out two mugs. 

“Jasmine, peppermint or Sleepytime?” Perry asked.

“Jasmine.” Lestat said absently, watching her economical movements. She popped the teabags into the mugs and sat across from him. “I expect you are curious as to why I am here.” 

“I know it’s not about work,” she said. “Is it about the, umm, other two I saw on Bourbon St.?”

He nodded, somehow pleased that she did not have to be prompted. “Yes. If you wouldn’t mind telling me exactly what you saw?”

“I was with some friends. We’d gone out to eat and afterward we decided to go for a drink. We went to 735. You know that place?” Lestat nodded. The kettle began to whistle and he motioned to her that he would get it. “It was crowded that night and there were some people hanging around outside the door. I remember looking at the faces, just to see if there was anyone out there that I knew and I saw something funny.”

She looked up at Lestat, so tall in her small kitchen. He poured hot water into each of the mugs and put the kettle back on the stove. She stopped talking when she met his eyes. Such beautiful eyes, she thought. She had never noticed the color of them, how deeply blue they were, shot through with silver and violet. He smiled benignly and sat down again. “You never noticed because you have only seen me with my beautiful Louis,” He said. “I am aware of his magnetism, _chérie_ , none better.” He picked up one of the spoons she had laid out and pushed the teabag down, releasing the fragrance. “Please continue. You saw something…funny?”

Perry nodded, dragging her eyes from his and stirring her own tea. She trained her gaze upon his hands, and that was nearly as distracting as looking at his face. He curled one hand around the cup; much as Louis had done the night he had come to hear this same story. “I saw a streak. It was like a flaw in an old photograph, one of those where if the subject moved the film would blur. It happened fast and then there was a girl standing where a second before there had been empty space. She looked around my age, with blonde hair to her shoulders, tall and very slender and she had a white dress on; I think that was why I saw the streak. She looked pretty normal except for the way she was just suddenly there.

Perry risked another glance at Lestat’s face. He was intent upon what she was saying and to her eyes he appeared disconcertingly clear, as though he was somehow more in focus than anything else in the room. She closed her eyes a moment and took a steadying breath. “Anyway, she went into the club and my friends and I went in just behind her. I lost her for a few minutes, but when we found a seat on one of the horrible red couches in there, I spotted her again It was then I saw the other one, the boy, and I knew it was them. I knew what they were.” She flushed a little.

“The books.” He said with a negligent wave of his left hand. The ring he wore caught the light in one of its filigreed facets. She shivered a little, closing her fingers. 

“The books, yes,” she acknowledged. “I told Louis I couldn’t for the life of me remember their names and that at the time it occurred to me that it was a good thing I didn’t because they might have noticed me then.” Her words tumbled out a little faster as she remembered the nebulous, floating fear she’d felt that night. “The boy was smoking one of those dark cigarettes and my friend Lisa remarked on it. She wondered how a kid that age was doing there and why no one had thrown him the hell out. Some guy asked the girl to dance and she went out to the floor with him. When our drinks came, I lost sight of her. I didn’t see either of them again that night.” she thought for a second. "Or the guy who asked her to dance, either.” Perry sipped at her tea, and regarded him over the rim of her cup. 

“That’s all that happened?” He dipped his head down to sniff at the fragrant tea. His hair was a marvelous color, pale, shining gold, like winter sun. Summer eyes and winter hair, she thought vaguely.

“That’s all I saw and that was enough. Are they here again?” Her voice sounded distant in her head.

“Could be.” Lestat said. 

“Louis said to get away from them if I saw them again, and to tell him.”

He nodded. “Just so. However, I don’t think you will need to worry about them.” He smiled again, and this time the smile was wide and ferocious, though she did not feel that he meant to frighten her. The smile faded a little, changing from chilling to friendly.

“Tell me, Persephone, how is Gerry these days?"

**(Brian)**

“You know that a pierced coin is worn as a protective charm, _oui_? Something to keep the wearer safe.” Louis reached and tapped the coin with his shining nail, and then he put his palm over it, pressing it hard against my skin for a moment.

“You told me that in Miami. Around your ankle, you said.”

“Yes. I wore it around mine for years. I was fifteen when she placed it there. To keep me safe, she said.”

“Who placed it there?” I asked.

“Yvette. Because she loved me.”

Yvette. The name was familiar, yet I could not recall him ever saying the name. Not to me, anyway.

“I showed her my palm, and after that she worried and it would not leave her mind.”

I stared at him, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. I hesitated asking him outright because I know that to do that can break his continuity, such as it is. At such times he is apt to become even more inexplicable…or he will just get up and leave. In the midst of these thoughts I remembered something.

“Yvette. I saw her tomb at Pointe du Lac. Beside someone named Mirande. Were they relations of yours?”

“Mirande was my mother.” He declared. 

And now I was even more confused for I’d thought his mother was Paulette, laid in the family vault beside Aurestile. “Wife and Mother’ was incised beneath her name and the years of her birth and her death.

“There was always speculation. Where had I got this hair? These eyes? Papa was fair and blue-eyed.” Louis laughed a little jaggedly. “You are puzzled. I can smell that, too.”

“Mirande was your mother?” 

“In all ways save one. Unfortunately. Perhaps I should have said she was my _maman_. It was she who raised me up as they say it now. When I was a boy I wanted desperately for it to be so. ” He looked directly at me for a moment. “Yvette was always there. She was part of my earliest memory--she and Mirande and my father. I have no memories of my birth mother prior to the time I was old enough to read. Why she was never there I have no idea, I only know that it was so.”

He did not appear to be agitated or upset in any way, but the wandering course of his thoughts was reminiscent of how he had been when Lestat had gone to Paris. I decided to try and redirect the conversation. “How did it happen that Yvette gave you the coin?” I barely knew what to make of this description of Louis’ early years. It had only just occurred to me that perhaps Yvette and Mirande were plantation slaves. I know that Louis’ family had owned slaves, but it was the first time that the impact of it became clear to me. It had always seemed a far away thing, as historical facts will.

Louis extended his hand to me, palm up. “Look at my hand.” he said. “Tell me what you see there.” I looked at it, seeming to float in the darkness. He nodded. “Take it. Examine it closely.”

And so I did, taking his hand between mine. His skin appeared to gleam; the whiteness was very stark in comparison to my hands. The skin was smooth and hard, weirdly flexible and somewhat cool. I looked closely at his palm. It was utterly smooth with no creases or folds to be seen. “Smooth. Like marble.” I said. I stroked his hand with unconscious fervor. I looked into his eyes. “Like Lestat’s.”

He turned his hand and took hold of my right hand, turning it palm up. “And yours?”

“Lines and creases. Ridges and whorls.” 

He ran a finger down one of the lines on my palm. “This is your love line. Long and unbroken.” The ghost of a smile played around his mouth. “And this is your life line. Also long, if such a thing means anything to you.” He traced it with his sharp fingernail, and then he took a moment to run the pad of his finger over the calluses on my palm. “I had such markings on my palms as all humans do. A love line in two distinct parts. A lifeline that was long…until my fourteenth year. That year it was just…gone.” He placed his hands around mine and closed my hand into a loose fist before letting go. He seemed unaware of his actions. “They took on so. Yvette was very frightened and she wanted me to go and show Mirande directly. They had never heard of such a thing. No one had, I expect.”

I wondered if I would have noticed such a thing when I was fourteen and I said as much to him.“You say so, but I think that you would have. That it happeded preyed dreadfully on Yvette's mind."

“And so she made the charm? To keep you safe?”

“She asked me to never take it off, and I would replace the leather thongs as they wore out. For her sake I wore it. In the end it was Lestat that took it from my ankle. Those long years it lay there in the ruins of my former home;. Long years.” He blinked slowly and looked again at the coin hanging from its chain against my chest. “It infuriated my mother that I would wear such a thing. So many things displeased her.”

The glimpse he was giving me into his past life was so unexpected that it seemed an enormous thing to me. I was at a complete loss as to what to say to the things he’d said. Not that he was looking for my comments. I had the feeling I was more of a sounding board…and that my questions only prompted an awakening of memories that he rarely brought forth. To say that I was fascinated was an understatement. 

“Jade’s eyes.” Louis said distantly. “My mother would look at me with her lip curled and tell me to drop my Jade’s eyes from hers. I didn’t know what that meant.”

Louis rose to his feet and looked at me with clear eyes, no longer focused in the past.

“You keep that, Brian. Tie it around your ankle. Maybe it will keep you safe.”

**(Lestat)**

I watched Persephone as she relaxed somewhat, more at ease speaking about Gerry than she had been when she related her little story about Sybele and Benji. Her thick, dark hair had been cut into an attractive, short bob that accentuated her sharp, slightly off-center features. Not a classical beauty, but arresting in her way, especially the air of aloof watchfulness that surrounded her and her dark, serious eyes. The very fact that Louis takes enough interest in her to occasionally spend time with her made me curious. I had, of course, spoken with her before, both at work and in more casual circumstances, but until this evening she had never been more than cautiously friendly.

I shifted my attention back to what she was saying, something about Gerry becoming more and more distracted in the past several weeks.

“…since you went to Florida with Louis and Brian a few weeks back. He was going to bring some files to you, something like that, and I told him that y’all had gone away for a while. Since then he’s gotten odd. I’ve been covering for him, but Glaise has already noticed that his mind is not on his work some of the time.” She sipped her tea and looked directly at me again. “Have you seen him since you came back from Florida?” she asked.

“Seen him? No. No, not at the office or in any other capacity. I’m afraid Gerry does not quite have the mental fortitude it takes to deal with us.”

“Maybe it’s not seeing you that’s taxing him.” Perry said shrewdly.

“Are you suggesting we take him away for another weekend?” I asked. .

She bit at the inside of her cheek, the flush of rising blood staining her neck prettily. “Uh…no.” She said in that sarcastic way that mortals affect. “I think sometimes he doubts his own senses. Or something.” She shrugged. “Not really my business, as he so often tells me.”

“He doesn’t like it that Louis confides in you.” I suggested slyly.

Perry laughed then, shaking her head. “No. He doesn’t care for that, but I think it’s more about you.” She grinned. “Like you didn’t already know that.”

I waved a hand dismissively and lifted the cup of tea to my mouth to lap at it with my tongue. A ghost of fragrance and nothing more. “It was he who pursued me after all.” I said airily. “Way back whenever it was. And he doubted his senses then as well. Funny how that happens to some mortals. You don’t doubt your senses at all.” She looked a little uncomfortable which was not my intention. “I meant that well, _chérie,_ ” I told her. She nodded, swallowing reflexively and taking another drink of her tea.

“I don’t understand how no one notices,” she said softly. “How can they not?”

“Most people would refuse to believe--fear or awe. It’s easier to ignore it, you see? And there are those that know and deal with it, as you would say. Some even love us. But see…I have taken up enough of your time.”

She watched me intently as I stood up to take my leave. After a moment she stood drawing her robe around herself. “And Louis is waiting.” she said with a smile.

I inclined my head. “Yes.” I took her warm hand in mine and squeezed gently so I would not hurt her. The thunder of her heart was loud in my ears and the rush of her blood intoxicating. “I believe I shall leave the way I came so as not to disturb the doorman downstairs. Thank you for indulging me, Perry. Perhaps we shall see each other soon. Good night.”

“Good night,” she said. I left her standing bemusedly in her kitchen.

**~~~~~**

~~~~~

Louis was waiting for me on the front balcony. I knew he was there when I rounded the corner. I couldn’t see him, but I saw the little, jewel-like lanterns twinkling from among the plants. I considered just taking a neat leap up there, but I opted for the front door and the stairs in order to anticipate him more fully.

The flat was dark and when I entered the parlour I could see the French doors were open. The sheer curtains fluttered in the rainy breeze, and from the balcony, his voice.

"Lestat- _viens près de moi._ " 

I stepped out to find Louis standing beside the open doors clad only in a pair of the ubiquitous silk drawstring trousers we both favor if we wear anything at all in the house. These were a deep violet color, and made more beautiful by the gust of wind that flattened the fabric against his body. He drew me to him and kissed me deeply, running his hands covetously up my back to curl over my shoulders. He tilted his head back and gazed at me in that way that makes me feel as though molten silver ran through my veins rather than blood. I have not the words to describe him when he looks at me this way--feasts upon me, consumes me whole and living with his eyes. 

“Yes,” he said in a voice so low that I had to strain to hear him. “Yes, here with me, _mon ange_ , and I see the pale gold behind you. Wings sprouted. Ahh…but you will not fly from me this night.” Louis brought his hands round my waist and pulled my shirt up and over my head, tossing it indifferently to the floor. He nodded to my feet and I toed my boots off, pushing them to one side. His hands went to my belt, unbuckling it slowly. Before his fingers strayed to the buttons of my jeans, he ran the flat of his palm over my belly. All this time I had not taken my eyes from his face. 

How often have I said he was beautiful? So he is, and with the look of fierce love that suffused him he was so much more than that. Again, I say…sometimes there are no words. No way to express the feelings that well up in me as though from a deep and mysterious spring. I felt tears in my eyes and my mouth was awash. He had me naked before him, yet he made no move to divest himself of the silken covering he wore. 

“Lie back, Pretty One, so that I might look at you a moment.” He gestured and it was then that I noticed that he’d swathed the wide chaise we had on the balcony with one of the thick comforters from our bed, this one covered in watered merlot silk. I smelled his heat in the gravid, rainy air and the green ferns and the damask scent of the China rose that grew in a pot in the far corner of the balcony. I eased myself backward into the silk.

There was an air about him that I could not place--not of seduction, but more of the needful worship he exhibits now and again. I lengthened my body before him and the sharp intake of his breath pierced me. I watched him watch me. There is no vestige of self-consciousness between us, only an awed reverence that inevitably causes a trembling of the limbs, a prickling of the sensitive nerve endings that seem to have multiplied beneath the covering of preternatural flesh. He lowered himself onto the chaise with his back to me and slid himself between my legs. His flesh was warm and damp from rain, the silk that covered his hips and legs whispered against my thighs. I put my arms around his chest and he leaned back against me.

Louis’ hand came up to caress my face and he twisted around to kiss me again, a questing kiss, exploratory and delicate and I opened to him. His tongue traveled lightly over my lips, feeling texture and shape. His breath tickled my senses, taste and smell, as it waxed and waned from his body into mine and back again. He took my breath, too, tasting and smelling and all the while his tongue traveled over my lips, outside and in, teasing them away from my teeth so he might feel the inner slickness there and the hard, white surfaces beneath. Every so often he spoke my name, the syllables as soft as his breathing. 

Around us, the enveloping heat of a Louisiana night and the windy rain added to our voluptuous reverie. The violet silk adhered wetly to him and his chest and arms gleamed with rain that became pink as it mixed with the dew of bloodsweat springing from his skin. His hair was jeweled with droplets that caught the light from the swaying lanterns. Our kiss continued. He did not rush and his tongue delved further, tracing the inside of my mouth and tangling sweetly with mine. 

My hands were busy too, skating his wet skin, tracing the planes and shallow valleys of muscle and bone, friction as blinding and electric as the lightening that stuttered soundlessly above us. If there was thunder, I did not hear it over the thunder of his heart and mine, I did not hear it over the ebb and flow of his breath. He shifted so that his hip was planted firmly between my thighs and his arousal came to fore with his tactile worship. The seduction, which had been dozing lightly beneath his reverent exploration, came lazily awake.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Look at you, wet with rain. Your hair is darkened with it.” He threaded his fingers through mine and raised my arm above my head to press his nose into the hollow, licking and tugging the scant hair there with his teeth. I pressed my aching erection tight against his angular hip. He raised his head and smiled dreamily, his eyes sweetly hazed. “…took me for your own,” he said huskily. “ _mon ange_. For your own.” His head dipped again and he drew his tongue along the inside of the stretched tendon, humming to himself. The wind kicked up and a gust of rain swept across our bodies, causing the lanterns to swing madly on their chains. The hanging ferns swayed and somewhere a pot upended. Louis twisted again so that his back was to my chest and he tore at the silk that clung to him, planting his feet so that he could raise his hips up to get them off. They lay for a moment across my foot in a wet tangle until I flicked them to the floor. He settled back upon me, reaching between his legs to position my cock between his thighs. 

“Skin to skin.” I felt the sonorous purring and the heat of his body. He held my hand in his, tracing the veins in my wrist with his fingers, his eyes dilated and wide as he gazed at the spot. “Just there,” he whispered. Louis wanted to drink. I know the look and I know the note his voice takes and so I disengaged my hand from his grasp and tore my own flesh to let the blood rain down into his open mouth. His eyes closed in sudden ecstasy and then he had my wrist grasped in his two hands, pressed to his mouth, fangs sunk deeply between and sinew and narrow bone. He tensed his thighs and the pressure was enough to wring a groan from me. He drew strongly, moaning gutturally, and rolled to his side, pulling me with him so that we were spooned.

He held my forearm tight, his head resting upon my upper arm. I curved my free hand around him to hold him as closely as I could to my body, fitting myself against him and listening to the sound of his breathless moaning. “So hungry, Louis.” I said into his ear, licking the whorled edge. “And your hunger feeds mine.” He drew his leg up and pushed back against me in invitation. I released my grip upon his chest to position myself and he received me with a deep growl. My wrist had become mass of throbbing pain and I could feel my veins and arteries constricting, tightening as he drank. This pain is ecstasy, it is unbearably arousing and I moved within him in smooth, slow strokes. I felt his mind reaching and he released my wrist to speak.

“Drink, my love. I would have all of you,” he rasped as he rolled his head back to bare his neck. I moved my arm up across his chest to hold him tighter and moved to open his throat.

Blood and blood and blood, and his scent and his essence roaring back into the starved, collapsed vessels in my body. The pain of my teeth tearing at Louis’ flesh was my pain and the pleasure he felt at our joining was mine also. His thoughts whirled, cyclonic and senseless, a hurricane of images. Something had stirred him up, agitated him, and I was only now becoming aware of it.

//'Drop your Jade’s eyes,'// I heard it, but it was his mind-voice overlaid with another that I had known long ago //‘Not fit.! NOT FIT!//’ and then the words were cut off cleanly and he throttled back, seeking me and finding me. We came together in that place where we have learned to let things be known that we cannot or never think to speak of. So many things, and though we have had long years together, who can know another’s minute to minute life? The thoughts that creep and bore in the mind? Not even such as we. I held him within and without until I felt a semblance of calm blanket him.

The Swoon is a blessing and a curse at once. A blessing for the balm it spreads over any amount of hurt, making it seem unreal and far away. A curse because whatever had happened we floated away from it, coiled together in warmth and the love that is central to existing at all. When I tried to pull it from him, that turbulence I had sensed, I couldn’t find it. 

His mind-voice was lazy and sated. “ Another time. We have plenty of it, after all, my love.”

**(Louis)**

Close to dawn we made our way to our bedchamber, clinging drunkenly to one another and stopping every few feet to kiss, to caress and murmur. Wet with rain and blood we fell together onto the bed and he pulled me to him, stroking my hair and singing softly:

__

" 'Il y a longtemps que je t'aime  
Jamais je ne t'oublierai  
Il y a longtemps que je t'aime  
Jamais je ne t'oublierai  
Sous les feuilles d'un chêne …' "

Lulling me as only he is able to. I was filled with him, surrounded with his warmth and the shards of jagged, glassy memory that had worked their way loose from the place I kept them buried were dulled, at least for the moment.

He was still there in my head, too, and I felt comforted that we would fall into the depthless sleep of the day with our minds still linked, and the images radiated were his tumbled thoughts of our coupling and the blood sharing that brought us to this point. Deep joy. I felt that with him, that aching, lovely feeling. There was also his reluctant standing aside from the memories he’d stumbled upon earlier. He would let them be. For now, at least. From outside our shuttered windows came a perfect fusillade of thunder and a moment later the house was silent. The quiet hum of the air conditioning unit was no longer audible. 

“Power’s off.” Lestat muttered as he shifted around to lie upon his side. I made no answer as I spooned against his back and pressed my face beneath the wild tangle of his pale hair. He put his hand over mine, placed over his heart.

On the edge of sleep I heard him sing a line from the lullaby,

_“‘Il y a longtemps que je t'aime ’”_

I kissed the nape of his neck drowsily.

 

TBC


	4. Dreaming of the Far Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have added to the dream Louis has, a re-write of a story already posted here in A03. Mademoiselle Stellie mentioned that it would fit in well and would illuminate Louis' past a little further. I thought it was a good idea, so if it looks familiar, that's why.
> 
> Also--I realize the HTML is screwy near the end of that dream sequence. I am tired of arguing with the edits that I've fixed when clearly I am missing something.

****

~Chapter Four~

(Brian)

I woke up early in the afternoon bathed in sweat. The power had gone out sometime in the wee hours of the morning and any residual coolness had long since bled from the room. I opened the doors to the small gallery that overlooked the courtyard with vague hopes of catching a stray breeze. It was still raining. I stepped out onto the wet decking and leaned on the railing. The warm rain felt good on my skin, a sensual thing coupled with the heavy, fecund smells of the florid courtyard. I smelled earth and flowers and the indefinable undercurrent of rot and moldering old wood that I associate with New Orleans. The stronger smells of the Quarter proper were not so noticeable in this enclosed little world.

Their home stands across from where I live, as it has stood for years and years. Not the very same place as when they lived there first, no. Fire had destroyed that place, but what stands now is very nearly the same, or so Lestat tells me. Some of the things within are older than the edifice; they certainly are. Night to night the fact that they had been living and reacting to people long in their graves is lost on me. It crosses my mind in an intellectual way from time to time, but it doesn’t seem real, the way that stories written in other ages don’t seem real. I know that George Washington had at one time been a living, breathing human being, but in my mind he’s only that bewigged man in the unfinished portrait. 

Listening to Louis talking about the past, though, Yvette, and Mirande--that hit me with a forcefulness that made me feel both uncomfortable and sorrowful. That they were still held close in his heart was clear, and was I shocked to find that there was room there for anyone other than Lestat? I suppose that I was, for Louis is always so clearly and unstintingly focused upon his beloved. 

There had been others in his life, people he knew, people he cared about before he knew Lestat, before he had given his very life to Lestat. My hand strayed to the coin, still hanging on the chain around my neck. Yvette had given it to him to keep him safe, he’d said. I know only bits of what his life had been like, things that he’s said at different times and the only thing I was certain of was that toward the end of his life he had wanted only to die and be free of it. He had stated over and over again that he had been barely able to keep it together by the time Lestat had found him. Saved him, as Louis himself always terms it.; and it had kept him safe; he had survived long enough for Lestat to find him. 

Do things really happen that way? Are there reasons for the small events that later loom large in memory? I don’t dwell on such questions, usually, because they don’t seem to have any answers. Sometimes, though, a little detail will blaze out like that, bright for a moment before the meanings behind it can wink out and disappear in the sea of other sensations and emotions and all the other things that are all part of minute to minute living. I went back into the bedroom to put on some clothes. It was time to go over and see if anything needed to be seen to before they awakened.

I checked the entire house even though I knew the doors were locked and the batten shutters on the first floor facing the street were closed. When the power is off, so are the alarms and even though there has never been an attempt by anyone with robbery in mind to enter this place, at least during my tenure here, I felt better after I’d seen everything was in its proper place. 

I was doubly pleased to see it when saw the French doors to front balcony wide open. The sheer curtains were sodden with rain and when I stepped on the throw rug in front of the doors it squelched unappealingly under my feet. A glance around the balcony showed they had enjoyed one another in the rain; an upended planter in the corner, pair of limp violet trousers cast aside on the floor and a heap of saturated wine silk on the wide chair…all things that did not need my immediate attention. I closed the doors and took the wet curtains and the throw rug to the utility room downstairs.

All these things were done on auto pilot; after all none of it needed any mental attention. My mind was full of the things that Louis had spoken of the night before and I had a maddening urge to ride out to the ruins of Pointe du Lac and look more closely at the family cemetery there. What would it tell me? Probably very little, but my curiosity was awake. While I was standing in the dark utility room, thinking these things, I heard the air conditioning hum back to life and the little beeping of the alarms needing to be reset. The power was back on--one less thing to think about. I’d been contemplating putting the generator on for the sake of the collection of rare books in the library. I touched the coin on my chest and wondered if Louis would be amenable to telling me anything more if I asked.

****

(Louis)

Lestat’s hands were gentle on my skin, whispering across with a touch as light as breath. I felt his palms glide over my back and my ribs, slow and easy and he pressed a kiss to my shoulder blade. There came a soft sound from him, a longing sigh that touched my heart with deep warmth and an answering need. His hand slipped over my hip and across my stomach, splayed.

“Louis, _mon amour _.” He kissed me behind the ear and aligned his body against my back.__

__“Seraph?” I whispered. I felt his smile against the side of my neck._ _

__“Will you lie abed, my own, or will you come with me?” he asked._ _

__I rolled to my back and he shifted to enclose me in a loving hug. I took his kiss and gave him one of mine. “Stay, I think.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “My mind is far away. I need time.” Lestat’s eyes are so beautiful. I felt easier looking into them, warmed by the fire I saw burning there. His hesitation was minute, barely there and I felt no jealousy of time withheld, only the faint, perplexed concern that he exhibits when he cannot quickly discern my mood. At last he nodded._ _

__“Some time, then,” he responded. “I don’t expect you are as eager as I to see the house on Jackson. It’s nearly finished, you know.”_ _

__“You will take me to see it when it’s done and we will pass a night or two there.”_ _

__He smiled then, and I pulled him down to kiss him once again, a kiss that turned into something fierce before I released him._ _

__“I won’t be very long,” he said in a low voice. I felt heat flare in me._ _

__****_ _

~~~~~

I dozed awhile after he left the flat and after a time I fell into a dream of long ago. It was one of those where images flash and dance before you, things that seem to have no connection yet you think if you can only see but a little more, the answer that the dream holds will be yours.

_My mother’s voice, strident and accusatory, nearly yanked me from sleep, but then the venomous sound faded and I saw candlelight and the air was redolent of lemon balm and lavender, those herbs that Yvette would strew and rub the bedclothes with. A snatch of a song she liked to hum. Hoofbeats and thunder and lashing rain. Between my fingers, rough paper and the smell of chalk dust in my nose and my heart ached with the words I’d read._

_In the dream I was a boy, still in my fourteenth year. I was sitting on the bank of the slow moving bayou that was near my home. There was a sudden tug on my line and I let the string play out from the careful coil in my hand. Rising slowly, I watched the line play out and with a quick jerk of the hand the fish was hooked an I began winding the line to bring it in._

_"He's a big one." Yvette commented when the fish was landed. The fish flopped in the tall grass, its gills gaping brilliant pink as it struggled to breathe. The sun flashed silver on its muscular body._

_"I'll hold him and you take the hook out." I said. It took him several tries, but I managed to get a firm grasp. Yvette extracted the hook and I released the fish back into the water, watching the rings widen where it had disappeared. Dragonflies stitched the surface. "I had a dream." I said, sitting down again. I worked the tangled line, winding it again the way Moses had taught me. Yvette stayed quiet, waiting for me to go on; she had always had such a store of patience. After a while I spoke again, eyes trained on water. A faint breeze stirred the moss in the massive live oaks that surrounded us._

_"A man. I couldn't see his face no matter how I tried. There was bright light in his hair. Maybe not a man. Maybe an angel." I secured the line neatly and laid it in the grass. "I opened my mouth to say something to him, but he raised his hand and he spoke. He said the time was coming." I turned to look at her; her eyes were wide._

_"Were you afraid?"_

_"No. I was--" I struggled for the right word and felt my neck and face flush. "Exalted." I gave her a challenging look as though daring her to laugh._

_"Like in church?" she asked, honestly puzzled._

_"Like that." I affirmed, "But—more. I’ve dreamed of him other times, too, but this was the first time he spoke." There was a huge limb half submerged in the water and as she waited for me to speak again, she watched a turtle creep up to join several others stationed there, necks stretched forward as they basked. "He reached out to me and his skin was so pale I could see the blue veins on the back of his hand. I reached to touch him and his hand was cool and smooth and I thought maybe that I had a fever because his touch was like a blessing. Like cool water when you are thirsty. He turned my hand over and traced my palm with his shining fingernail and for a minute I thought I could see his eyes, stormy gray eyes--"_

_My voice trailed off I saw that Yvette was watching me rubbing left palm The breeze picked up and we listened to the pop and snap of bream feeding by the lily pads near the bank where we sat. The sky had taken on a bronze cast. There was a sudden gust of wind, cool and fragrant with oncoming rain and a litter of small yellow leaves scattered across the water. Thunder muttered somewhere to the south._

_"We should go." Yvette rose to fetch her shoes._

_"There's something else." I said as though she had not spoken._

_"What?"_

_"I'll show you. Come here."_

_"The storm…"_

_"The storm is still a little way off."_

_Yvette came to me reluctantly and sat down beside me The wind gusted again and I put my hand in hers and turned it palm up. She looked into my eyes.  
"What is it?"_

_"Look at my hand."_

_She did, and at first she wasn't sure just what it was she was looking for—a wound, maybe, or a splinter of wood to be pulled. After a moment, she saw and she let go with a gasp. "That cannot be. Louis, that can't happen."_

_I shrugged, reaching for a nonchalance that I did not feel. "But it has."_

_She snatched my other hand and saw that the same thing had happened there. Everyone has lines on their palms, creases from the way the hands close and open and there are those that are said to be able to see glimpses of things in these lines. Yvette was one such person and the look in her dark eyes told me she was afraid. I hadn’t wanted to frighten her, but who else could I turn to?_

_My life line was—gone. The other lines were in place as they had always been, the love line there with two distinct parts, the creases at the joints of his fingers. The life line was gone._

_"What does it mean?" I asked. Watching myself in the dream I thought wonderingly that what I heard in my boy’s voice was innocence._

_"I don't know. We should ask Maman."_

_"No." I said immediately. "Not yet." The wind had picked up and was blowing steadily._

_"She'll know, Louis. She always knows."_

_"Not yet." I repeated, standing to go and fetch my shoes. "Promise me. Please.”_

_There was a blue flash overhead, followed by a tremendous thunderclap. I threw his arms around Yvette and pulled her close. On the far bank of the bayou, smoke rose from the scorched side of one of the old trees; one of the higher limbs tore free with a rending screech. Fat drops of rain began to fall.  
We stood staring at the tree for a long moment and then I said, "Put your shoes on. We have to go."_

_She hadn't promised anything, but later, in the kitchen house with Maman Mirande's good food in our bellies, she met my worried glance, and nodded to let me know that she would remain silent._

_I lingered in the kitchen house, more comfortable there with Mirande and Yvette and their family than I was with his own mother. Papa was away in New Orleans and I was loathe to go to the big house where I was certain to receive disapproving words from my mother, likely followed by banishment to my chambers, there to be alone with this new worry. I got up anyway, knowing that I was only putting off the inevitable._

_"Your shirt is clean, child. Madame will think only that you were caught in the rain and not tossing your clothes so thoughtlessly into the mud." Mirande said.  
I hung my head briefly, but I saw her broad smile when I looked at her from beneath My lashes. I smiled back._

__"Merci, maman," I said, going to receive her warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. I loved the way she smelled, like warm bread and the pungent herbs she used in her remedies._ _

__The storm had passed and I stood near the pigeoniere listening to the muffled cooing of the doves within. The lamps in the house glowed warmly but I lingered in the dark, unconsciously rubbing my palms together and thinking again of the dreams and wondering what it all meant, wondering why the figure that had beckoned with his white hands and gray eyes seemed more real than my waking life did. I wondered, too, why the night comforted him in ways that the sun so rarely did anymore._ _

__"Qui êtes-vous?" I said into the darkness._ _

I awakened. 

“Lestat?” I said. But he had not yet returned. 

_****_

(Lestat)

Only a week before when I had visited the place on Jackson Avenue, Brian had been most vocal, waxing lyrical on the lovely, curved banisters that presided on either side of the sweeping staircase and heaping praise upon the redoubtable Mr. Everett and his restoration skills. When I arrived at the house this evening I’d watched him for a few moments from the porch. He was painting the moldings over the doorway that led from the foyer to the drawing room, but his expression was preoccupied, not the look of concentration I have come to know when he is absorbed in his work.

“Something on your mind, _cher_?” I said, stepping from the shadow of the porch. Brian’s face relaxed into a smile when he heard me and his scent shifted pleasantly. Eagerness and clean sweat and some chemical change in him--smells I have come to associate with him when I am near. Scents that told me whatever was on his mind did not have him overly worried, only pensive. I didn’t probe his thoughts, not right then anyway. At that moment I didn’t know that what was on his mind was his conversation with Louis.

“Just thinking,” he said, with a funny little sideways glance at me. He put the lid on the can of paint he was using and dropped his brush into a small tin pail of odiferous turpentine that sat on a neatly folded square of canvas. I have noticed that he is a methodical worker, moving surely and without rushing until he was finished with one task before beginning the next.

“Perhaps we might sit on the porch?” I said, waving at the turpentine.

“Oh...right. Sure,” he said. He wiped his hands on a clean rag and walked with me outside.

We spoke for a while about the house, but he was still desultory on the subject. Before I could inquire once again what was on his mind, he leaned over and took a can of beer out of the small cooler he had with him.

“What’s it mean, ‘Jade’s eyes’, Lestat?” Brian said, popping the top.

I looked sharply at him, and his hand froze with the can of beer halfway to his mouth. “Why do you ask?” 

He set the can on top of the cooler and his expression turned wary. “It was something Louis said the other night. I didn’t quite understand the reference…the expression. You know?” He waited, enduring my gaze for a long moment before lowering his eyes and letting out a gusty little breath. “How did it come up?” I said at last. I kept my voice even, so he would not become nervous and leave something out. Jade’s eyes. I’d heard that, yes I had. Heard it in Louis’ mind when we shared blood the night past. And whose voice was that? I knew that, too.

“He came by when you were out and he told me some things about this.” Brian touched the coin hanging against his chest and looked up again to meet my eyes. “He told me about Yvette and Mirande - and then he talked a little about his mother.” He picked up the beer and took a long swallow.

“He said she hated that he wore it. He said that there were--how did he say it?” Brian’s eyes went hazy for a moment as he recollected, “ ‘so many things displeased her.’ That’s how he said it. And then he was just gone. You know, like he sometimes gets. Far away. Then he said, ‘Jade’s eyes. My mother would look at me with her lip curled and tell me to drop my Jade’s eyes from hers.’ " Brian looked at me. “He said he didn’t understand what that meant…not then.”

For a moment all the years between this time and those long ago days when I first found Louis were gone. I felt my pulse beating, thick and red behind my eyes and it was an ache; the old, hard anger that would rear up and blind me.

“Jesus.” I heard Brian say in a small, faraway voice. I heard the dim sound of something falling and then when I blinked, it was all in place again, except I was on my feet and so was Brian, his eyes wide and pained. His chair was upended and I saw that I had a grip on his arm, just above the elbow. I released him abruptly and he took a shaky step backward. 

“Forgive me.” I said distantly. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Louis told you to keep that, did he?” I gestured to the coin on its chain.

He nodded. “He told me to tie it around my ankle,” he said, as though he’d only just then remembered. “He said it might keep me safe.”

“Perhaps you should do that. Or put it away. Just so it is out of sight. Louis--he gets lost, sometimes.” I said that last mostly to myself, but Brian heard it. His expression was dismayed.

“Not your fault.” I told him. “Just put it away for now, yes?” I sat back down on the chair.

“Aren’t you going back?” Brian said after a moment.

“He wants time.” I said, musingly. “I know now he is thinking. Remembering. So I will give him some time and then I will go to him, and I’ll…” I glanced at Brian, and gestured for him to sit. “Let me see your arm, _cher_.” I said.

**(Louis)**

Pushing the dreams…the memories…to the back of my waking mind, I got up and dressed myself with Lestat in mind. Distractions, these clothes. I love the way his eyes light when he sees the fastenings; the fit and the colors. These are a soft tanned chamois and they ride low. They lace up the front and tight across the thighs and ass. They were long enough from crotch to knee for a change…the tailor commented on the length of my upper leg, of all things, as he measured and pinned. His hands had been avid and busy, but I had ignored it, only noting it as some further entertainment when I might bring Lestat along, to watch him react to the measuring. The pants were a surprise for him. I'd gotten them weeks ago and found them when I rummaged through the things in the guest room closet.

From that moment to this one, when I finally noticed I was standing in the ticking darkness of the front room on the first floor, I realized that I was not certain how much time had passed. I had not noted the time when I decided to dress, after all. It didn't matter. The fragile bit of paper and ink I held carefully in my hand defied time in much the same way that I did. I folded it the way I had found it in the little carved chest. What had I been looking for? That also no longer mattered, I supposed. I'd found this. Other things, too. They had been in a vault at one time, but I’d brought them back here. When? I smelled the bitter edges of the paper and the black ink that had faded through the years to translucent sepia. After a time, I went back upstairs and placed the letter on the mantelpiece in our room. I had made no fire in the grate, not this night. It was warm still, or it would be if the house were not sealed against the thick Louisiana air. The letter would bide.

He was near, my angel. I couldn't hear him but I felt my skin prickle in anticipation of him, felt heaviness in my groin, pooling heat that made the things I'd found go back to the long ago. I went to wait for him in the parlour, where the doors could be opened and I set the beeswax tapers alight one by one, until the room glowed with tiny, golden lights. The flames reflected in mirrors and crystal and in the burnished gilt picture frames. I sat down to listen for him. 

 

****

(Lestat)

When I stood a block from our home I knew where he was. The doors to the balcony were open. I couldn't see that through the plants, but I was upwind and I could discern him, his scent bright among the muddied and indifferent smells of exhaust and filth and humans. I stood still for a moment, tantalized, and then I dropped the lightness and speed I'd used when I left Brian and I settled into a mortal gait.  
I approached slowly. Whatever is there…whatever Louis has in his mind, there is always Us, there is always We.

The way he copes with things is not the way I do it. It has taken me long years to know this.

I stopped across the street to look up at the balcony and I could see his head and shoulders, limned in candlelight. I know his shape in shadow as well as I know his scent in the dark. He leaned over the railing, pushing aside the foliage, his elbows resting on the iron rail.

"Lestat." he crooned.

His voice was seductive, so sensual as to make me nearly molten. I remained still. He reached a hand to me...pleading, drowning hand. Our eyes met and his mouth opened and closed in instinctive mastication. I crossed Royal and entered our home. He came to stand at the top of the stairs and it struck me at once that he has dressed solely for me, solely for seduction. My heart twisted and my groin tightened. How can it be thus? If you are asking, you have never seen him, or the like of him. He loves me and it is not this affirmation I seek. Why would I? To do so would hurt him deeply and my days of that particular selfishness are past me. I hope they are, at any rate, because at this moment I remember how angry I became when I saw something through Brian that I had not realized. Was I angry with Brian? No. Not at all; he is loyal and he loves us both as best he can. Angry because of how own mother, had hurt him? I was there for some of it and I knew that woman. It stung, it stung the barest amount that he would hide behind seduction. Still-- who was better at that than I? He wanted only time and we have that. 

And then there is the fact that I am his willing slave. Seduction? Oh, so easily accomplished, because there is no one on earth that beckons to me as he does, no face that I would wish to look upon more than his. 

Louis leaned forward against the railing to watch my progress up the stairs and some details were revealed. His shirt was old; it may have been authentic, but such things mean little, I suppose. Eggshell linen. Wide sleeves. No buttons, just lacing, the way it had been when I had found him. His carelessness of how time passes is something that I am long used to. He took my hand when I reached the top of the stairs and together we went into the parlour. I knew at once that the questions I had would not be answered this night. I knew he needed me. He is without guile and his seduction is an innocent thing…he does it because he loves me, yes…but there are times when he cannot bear to think on things past.

We stepped onto the balcony and he released my hand to stand once again at the rail. Warm wind ruffled his black hair, loose on his shoulders.

"Louis?"

I whispered his name and watched his spine ripple at the sound of my voice. He stood tall and his hands tightened on the railing. 

“Seraph?"

" _C'est moi_." I said. He turned slowly.

"Oh…you will come to me...will you not? I will have you tonight, my love. Your perfection." His eyes gleamed hungrily. He bared his fangs for a moment, growling softly as he took a step toward me. His fingers brushed the sleeve of my shirt and his nails whispered over the silk to pause over my heart. He gazed at me through lowered lashes. “Your heart races. Your blood…rises.”

He slipped a button through its hole, and I felt my flesh quiver where his knuckles brushed me.

“I will have you.” 

Another button released, and he brought his mouth a breath away from mine.

“Tonight.”

The last two buttons were slipped through fabric and then he parted my shirt.

“Your perfection.”

He took my left hand and raised it. The cuff of the shirt covered my wrist and he tore it away with his teeth, leaving my arm bare from just above my elbow on down.

“Take you.” He slurred. His tongue rasped over my inner wrist. He let go and snaked his arms around my waist and again is mouth was the merest movement away from mine. Lascivious smile. I burned for him.

“Take your mouth.” Louis muttered. I moved my head and we clashed, a savage kiss. My lower lip was rent and he sucked it, torn and bleeding between his own lips, moaning softly. The sweet pain of it broke my stillness and I pulled him roughly against me. The kiss went on and on, incendiary kiss, fierce and deep. His hands raked my back and he brought his left one round to tear at my fly. His right hand fisted in my hair and he pulled my head back, breaking the kiss.

“Take. You.” He said.

 

****

(Brian

)

When you happen to be human, it’s sometimes difficult to think in any other fashion beyond your own experiences. I can remember things that happened to me months ago and years ago, but like most people, I am centered mostly on the present and the recent past. In most instances this seems true of Lestat and of Louis, as occupied with each other as they are, but then there are the times that their very long and complicated pasts come into play. This seems to be happening more and more. Maybe it’s just that I have been near them long enough that they no longer bother to shield such things from me. I don’t know. Routine makes people complacent, and people can adapt to pretty much anything in time. 

My complacency is shaken when I am reminded of their essential non-humanity. It shatters when I think about all the things that they have seen and done, and I am driven by a feverish curiosity to know more. This is my obsession. They are my obsession. 

After Lestat left I went through the house to close and lock the windows and the doors. It had begun to rain in earnest and so I decided I would sit on the porch a while, maybe have another beer before walking the several blocks to catch the streetcar. My left arm throbbed where Lestat had grabbed me and I was fairly certain he’d come in just under the wire for exerting enough pressure to crush the bones. The bruised skin felt hot where I prodded at it gingerly. Occupational hazard. Lestat’s flare of anger had unnerved me only in that I had not realized that it was coming. It’s that complacency thing, see. There is no way to really know when a button on some sensitive issue may be accidentally pressed. 

I fingered the coin for a moment before removing it from around my neck. He told me to put it out of sight and so of course I would do just that. ‘Louis…he gets lost sometimes.’ Lestat said, which was odd, since he is not usually given to understatement. That was likely because of his preoccupation with what I’d told him added to the aggravation he’d exhibited when I’d given him the news from the NOPD. I was pretty sure that little problem had been thrown completely from his mind. I’d have to keep my ears open in case of any more infringement. 

I wondered idly what had possessed Marius’ two fledglings to hunt in New Orleans proper. I kept my nose out of such things on general principle but it seemed that I was tripping over this or that vampire every couple of months. Would Lestat destroy them? I thought it was entirely possible. I finished the beer and headed out into the rainy night.

 

****

(Lestat)

Louis slept beside me, locked in my arms. His eyes moved restlessly beneath his eyelids, dreams that bleed from his sleeping mind to my consciousness; his thoughts were still open to me from our earlier blood sharing. The images were old ones, people long in their graves, yet they are alive in his mind, startlingly clear, as our memories will sometimes allow, especially in sleep. He was seated on a rickety wooden chair in the room I recognized as his bedchamber. Yvette, drawing a comb through his hair, seated on the floor in order to work her way through the heavy length of it.

His father must still have been alive when this memory took place for his hair was so long…I had not known him them. A younger Louis, his mind already rebelling against the onslaught of pain that seemed to define his life, his thinking fragmented. He dreamed of her hands in his hair, gentle and sure. The memory shifted and he was younger still, just a boy, no more than nine or ten. He knelt on the floor with tears of pain standing in his remarkable green eyes. His hands were balled into tight fists and his mother loomed over him. She was speaking but Louis Renée Michel could not hear the words. His body trembled with pain but he did not cry. He raised his chin to look up at her, blinking once so that the tears he felt there would not fall

“Drop your Jade’s eyes from mine.” She hissed. What could it mean? Louis thought confusedly. Jade was green. That must be it. He did not look away. He stared back at her defiantly and tried to ignore the pain that burned in his legs from kneeling on the dried peas.

“Louis.” I said softly, curving my hand around his face. I couldn’t let him dream anymore of it. He stirred and opened his eyes and they were distant and opaque for a long moment until he saw me. 

“Lestat.” He let out a shuddery sigh, and I kissed his temple. “I was dreaming.”

“I know, love.” I murmured.

TBC


	5. Intensity of Focus

**(Brian)**

I don’t know what I expected when I came back here. It looked the same as it had the last time, though I spent more time looking at the names on family graves; Mirande and Samuel in one pediment tomb and beside that tomb a larger and more ornate tomb that held the remains of Yvette de Pointe du Lac. There were other tombs, smaller ones…less ornate. None of the names were familiar to me. I supposed they could be traced in other ways, some of them. Church records? The plantation records must surely have been lost in the fire. Louis burning his bridges? Severing the ties of his mortal life to be with Lestat? Church records would not tell me what I wanted to know. There would be nothing in them about Louis’ mother and the disturbing things he’d said about her, nothing in them about lifelines that suddenly disappeared from a boy’s hands or what his beloved father had been like. Nothing about a woman named Yvette de Pointe du Lac.

**~~~~~**

_Several nights after the incident over on Jackson Avenue he sauntered into my living room and asked casually if my arm was all right. He didn’t seem to hear my answer, lifting my arm to sniff at the purple fingermarks._

_“I do regret hurting you. It was unintentional,” he said, pressing the bruise with his fingers. He watched my face._

_I shrugged it off. “Is Louis alright?”_

_He released my arm. “Why wouldn’t he be?”_

_“You seemed worried about him after we talked the other night.” I pointed out._

_He glanced at the television and the picture winked out.“Louis’ past is not so buried to him as the weight of years would make it seem. It does not worry me, but I dislike seeing him caught in the pain of his past. It was seeing the coin, but it could as easily have been any number of things.”_

Any number of things, I thought. I touched the incised letters on Yvette’s tomb. It was true enough. When I was here with Louis he had been lost in the past, but it was had been his anxiety over his separation from Lestat that had been predominant in his mind. It seemed that there might be more to his current state then reminiscing about a life he had left behind a long time ago. The pierced coin rested now in the box where I kept a few other pieces of jewelry, but I could picture it easily, having examined it over and over in the days since I’d found out that it belonged to him.

‘Because she loved me.’ Louis said. She tied that little charm on him and he wore it for years. He had loved her as well, that was clear enough from the things he’d said. 

I pushed my way through the tangled brush to where the house had been, trying to orient myself. The front door was easy. It would have faced long _allée_ of skeletal live oaks. Toward the far end of the _alleé_ some of the trees were still alive, twisted and gnarled, heavy branches sprawling outward, the lowest ones resting upon the ground in a litter of dead leaves. Several of the columns still stood, barely recognizable in their jackets of kudzu. There was very little left of the house itself and even the foundation was crumbling, falling prey to the tenacious vegetation and the rapacious hunger of the Louisiana climate. I had a fairly good idea of what the house might have been like. Working on the old house on Jackson Ave. had prompted an interest in the architecture of the old South. I’d done all the tours of the plantation houses on the River Road as well as around the state and up into Mississippi and talked with the men and women who made the preservation of these places their passion and livelihood. There were several who had even mentioned this very property with the avid curiosity that an unexplored site produces in their kind. Some had mentioned writing letters to be allowed to go over the site in search of archeological finds in the ruins that were known to be there, but had been politely and firmly rebuffed by both the owner of the property and the firm that represented him.

“Mr. Pointe du Lac is adamant that the property remain undisturbed.” I was wistfully told by one of the staff of the Louisiana Historical Society, a dapper and well-spoken gentleman by the name of Lucas Arngrim. Mr. Arngrim had been gracious enough to let me pore through a cache of forty or so photographs that included views of the house on Jackson that I was helping to restore. On the occasion of our third meeting, he’d found out that the mysterious Mr. Pointe du Lac was one of the owners of the Jackson Ave. property and he asked me with a speculative look if I had any pull with him. I had to tell him that, unfortunately, I did not.

Louis and Lestat own quite a lot of property in and around New Orleans. Some of the buildings have remained untouched for long years, while others have been kept up. Some were leased out and some were empty. I knew all that but I’ve never asked them their reasons for what was done with any given place. It was my feeling that neither Mr. Arngrim nor anyone other interested party would be given permission to explore and codify what remains of Pointe du Lac.

These thoughts passed through my mind as I stood in the shadow of one of the wide pillars, looking at the sun dazzle reflected through the trees on the water of the bayou. The landscape is typical Louisiana, scrub palmetto and sugar pines and live oaks draped with Spanish moss. This place had seen things that were outside the realm of historians and antiquarians. The owner was a time traveler, someone who, if he’d wished to, could have supplied them with details and minutiae enough for dozens of books.

Unease grew upon me, and it had little to do with the supernatural. I had no trouble accepting anything on that score. The prickling I felt was instinctive and I have learned to pay close attention to these feelings. I’ve come to know that they exist for a reason and to ignore the whispered advice could be disastrous. I retraced my steps back to the cemetery and from there back to my car, parked at the rusty chain pulled across the rutted track. Curious or not, I decided to let things lie as they were and if either Louis or Lestat wanted to tell me more about any of it, they’d do it in their own good time. With a last glance in the direction of the cemetery I climbed into the car and drove back to the City.

(Louis)

He woke me from an uneasy dream and for a wonder it took me a moment to know it was Lestat who had my face in his hand and the syllables of my name held tenderly in his mouth. The dream turned to a cloud, torn ragged by the wind. I felt his kiss on my head.

“Lestat.” I said, twisting snakelike in his arms and shuddering. “I was dreaming.”

“I know, love.” His voice caught and I knew then that he’d seen behind the clouds.

“It’s nothing.” I told him lightly, angling back so I could lose myself in his eyes. 

Held there, things were clearer. I drew my finger across his lip, paying close mind to the crease my fingernail made in the softness. I pulled a little and the glistening underside was shown me, the roots of his teeth in shining gums. His scent. He opened his mouth slightly and I probed further, the edges of his sharp bottom teeth, the three front most ones overlapping slightly, a perfect imperfection. He closed his teeth down on my finger, light pressure that gradually grew stronger to the point of a warning pain. He let up and drew my finger in to suck upon it. I drew my finger out again, captivated by the coating of saliva. 

“It’s something.” Lestat said. His hand slid up my back to tangle in my hair. My head was drawn slowly back and he grazed my throat with his teeth, with his wet tongue. I saw him in the mirror, his back bruised and scored bloody from our earlier lovemaking. Heat washed through me.

“You had me bent double, Louis,” he growled. 

“You opened to me.” I muttered, nosing into his hair. 

“Took me.” His tongue arced across my neck and all thought, all pain, was driven cleanly back. I thought, ‘he knows’ and on the heels of that thought floated a pure bubble of coalesced emotions, love and lust and gratitude. 

The dawn was near, I felt it, but there was time still. I arched against him and then rolled, pulling him on top of me. He bit into my neck and I clung to him, trembling as he drank in my life.

**~~~~~**

“Stop skulking out there, Brian, and come in.” Lestat said. He was lying on his back between my thighs, his golden head just under my chin. I had my arms clasped loosely about his chest and as Brian opened the door he placed a hand over mine.

When Brian let himself into the house, Lestat had called out to him and Brian had come to stand outside the door. His hesitation had been a momentary thing; girding himself possibly. His eyes darted about the room as he entered.

“Not much damage, really. “ Lestat drawled lazily. “The mattress, perhaps.”

The sheets and mattress were dark with blood. Brian nodded.

“You’ve been in and out quite a bit the last few nights. Is something going on?”

“A few phone calls.” Brian said, licking his lips. Lestat had not bothered to cover himself. “From Marius. He sounded pretty agitated in the last one.”

I lost interest in what he was saying at that point and I let my head fall back against the pillows. I watched them both in the mirror through my lashes, admiring the play of light on Lestat’s skin. They spoke back and forth, resolving the question of Marius, I assumed. Lestat had taken to circling my upper thigh with his fingers and the movement was soothing. I closed my eyes altogether.

A while later--minutes? An hour? I opened my eyes to see Lestat had turned in my arms and he was looking at me questioningly. Still at the foot of the bed, Brian watched anxiously.

“How long, what, Louis?” Lestat asked.

“I don’t know. You?” I muttered.

“Louis? What is it, _mon amour_? Another dream?”

I touched his hair and glanced at Brian. He started visibly.

“What would _Madame_ do?” I said, still staring at Brian. He backed up a few steps.

“I should go,” he said softly. Lestat ignored him and he stayed where he was.

“What would she do? That was the question.” I kissed Lestat’s mouth tenderly. “We didn’t know then what the answer was. We didn’t know what she would do.”

Lestat sat up and maneuvered around until he’d managed to pull me into his lap. It felt good to be held so, and I laid my head against his chest.

"Louis, _Madame_ has been dead this long time. Come back to me, darling.” Something in his voice caused my head to lift and he was there in exquisite, startling clarity.

“Where else would I be?” I asked him, brushing at the soft wisps of hair that tumbled into his eyes. 

“You have been known to wander occasionally. “ Lestat said with a touch of self-mockery. He smiled a little.

“I may yet still,” I told him vaguely, shifting in his lap and pressing my brow to his. In his eyes I read love and impatience and the flare of his need to control things. “You will find me if I get lost, won’t you?”

I said it lightly but Lestat was not in the mood for it. What had I said before? Things were blurred as though I blundered in a thick mist, robbed of the acute senses I barely think about anymore. Only Lestat seemed clear and untouched, the way he had when he first came to me.

 

****

(Brian)

They were away from the townhouse for a week or so after that night. In that time I had the mattress hauled away and disposed of and I changed the color scheme of the room. I didn’t think it would be much noticed whenever they decided to return but it gave me something to occupy my mind. Lestat called once to tell me he had his cell phone with them, but was not forthcoming with any other details. I knew him well enough to understand that he didn’t wish to be disturbed except under dire circumstances.

I’d been at work in the office for several hours, going through the scrolls of fax paper that had accumulated and working through several days’ worth of mail, neglected as I’d been overseeing the work done in the bedroom. I usually worked in silence, not caring to have too much distraction. The French doors in the office were open, and the sounds from the street kept me company in the dark, empty flat. 

At least I’d thought it was empty. 

Something caught my attention and I went still to listen. Nothing. There was no sound and the alarms were all set, the rows of light on the panel uniformly green except for the lone red light indicating the open door in front of me. What was different? Air currents? A smell? My skin prickled. Had to be them. No one else could have breached the system. Why the silence?

I got up and stepped out into the dark hall. After a long moment I stepped across and went into the parlour, switching on one of the small table lamps as I entered. It took me a moment to see him; Louis sitting still as a carved angel in one of the straight-backed chairs near the hearth. I bit my lip to hold in a startled gasp and took another step toward him. His spring-leaf eyes glittered as he tracked my movement. 

“You’re home.” I said, flustered.

No answer from him. He continued to stare me with a sort of flat consideration that was completely unnerving. I willed myself to relax and then he blinked and I saw the spark of recognition in his eyes. The fearsome glitter faded and he shifted slightly in the chair. That small movement changed his aspect entirely and the breath left me in a little sigh. I had not realized that I’d been holding it in.

He looked down and I realized that he was holding a bit of paper, yellowed with age. He began reading aloud.

_‘‘The incident that we spoke of before your abrupt departure has continued in your absence Knowledge of the secret has cleared my vision and I see now what before would have passed unnoticed,’_

Louis’ voice trailed off and he raised the paper to his nose, sniffing delicately. “No trace of her, save the ink on the paper.” He said, looking at me. “She worried so when I was away for a long while, because of my hands, the smoothness where there should have been creases. When I went away things happened to me. Sometimes I made things happen, too, but often I just let things occur as they would. And while I was away, things happened at Pointe du Lac, but I was not always clear on what was real and what I imagined to be real.”

His voice was brittle, a thin skim of ice. He lifted the page again and read a little more.

_“The nights are long and I lie rigid with worry that you have come to some calamity. Always in my mind I see the blank places on your hands. Louis, do please come home to your Yvette.”_

I was trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he was telling me this as much as marveling that the letter Louis was holding had survived for so long, through fires and floods and God only knew what else. 

“What happened while you were away?” I asked him. My earlier resolve to mind my own business fled in the face of this shared confidence. 

“It wasn’t just the coin, you know,” he said, inexplicably. My hand strayed to my chest, but of course I’d taken it off at Lestat’s behest. “It has been long years since I walked as a mortal but I think of Yvette now and again, as I think of the others that I have loved. Had it just been that, the memory would have flared and then faded, even with my telling you of it.”

Louis was speaking coherently, his words were connected, yet there was something missing, something that prevented me from making sense of what he said.

“Coherently?” Louis said, with a benevolent little smile. “Less than flattering, _oui_? That I am not always--coherent?”

I flushed, but it was more of a reflex. I knew Louis wasn’t in the least bit worried about what I was thinking; he was only momentarily amused by what he’d picked up from my thoughts. His gaze sharpened suddenly and the smile fled from his lips.

“I am certain that I am not always coherent, as you put it, _mon petit_ Brian, but you seem to understand well enough. You keep our confidences close and your reasons for that are also less than coherent, are they not? Should anything happen that you are at a loss to comprehend, it would be in everyone’s interest if you would keep what you may see or hear to yourself. _Comprenez-vous_?

“Of course, Louis.” I said. I couldn’t look away from his eyes and I felt a force behind his words that his mild tone belied entirely. I swallowed reflexively, not in fear so much as in bewildered confusion. Before I could open my mouth he raised his hand. “I don’t mean keep anything from Lestat. As if you could, anyway.” A faint smile crossed his features at his last remark but it was gone as fast as it had appeared.

“If I might ask you something?” I ventured. He shrugged. “Does whatever you are speaking of involve other vampires? Marius or the other…”

Incredibly, he laughed. It was not an altogether pleasant laugh, though there was some amusement in it.

“I don’t think so. If something occurs that has to do with them, you can tell whomever you have a mind to. Don’t look so worried, _cher_. If anything happens, you’ll know it for what it is, I’m sure.”

I was glad he was so sure about it because I fucking well wasn’t. Still, I had no choice but to take him at his word. The whole thing was unsettling.

As I watched, Louis cocked his head. A silent white streak and then suddenly the French doors stood open and I could see his angular body silhouetted by the light from across the street. His posture was alert and eager and that could only mean Lestat was on his way.

None too soon, I thought.

**(Lestat)**

We spent some time in our place on Toulouse, taking full advantage of the extensive soundproofing and excellent construction. The place was hardly marred after several rather exhaustive nights in what Brian refers to with studied casualness as The Playroom. There were a few things that would need repairing, but all in all things had held up quite well indeed.

I’d brought Louis into the bedroom just before dawn, gaunt and light in my arms, but with a satisfied purr resonating through him and when we had awakened it was not in the playroom, but in the ornate iron bed, swathed in velvets. His body still bore faint marks--not scars, really, for they would be gone before the night’s end, arabesques and filigree and ornate traceries that I’d worked lovingly into his flesh with razor and knife, tooth and nail. I traced one such mark still visible on the supple skin of his lean hip and watched with pleasure as his flesh rippled.

“Lestat.” 

I love to hear my name in his mouth. 

Louis had been feverish with the need to release the tension that had been building within him. These were signs I recognized, echoes of past things, lost days, gone but never really pushed aside entirely. Sometimes there are revelations, things I had not known. Other times he wanders in some misty parallel place, here, but not altogether, unless I call him back with a touch or a word. This is just Louis, as much a part of who he is as his green eyes or his keen mind.

There are many that have observed that Louis was never quite of this world and not a few of them were people that he knew in his mortal life. I wonder sometimes if he’d argued against the very idea that he was somehow special with any of them--Yvette or his father or Giancarlo. I am certain if he had, none of them were able to convince him otherwise. It’s another thing about him that’s essential to being who he is. Louis has a few blind spots, though I could not be persuaded to bring that up with him, either. His debating skills are formidable.

I digress.

“I think, _mon lion_ , that I would like to go home.” He ran his fingers across my chest. “And you have something, I believe, that you would like to see to, _oui_?”

I grinned lazily at him.c“Tonight, tomorrow night. There is no hurry.” I told him. The past few nights had pleasantly dulled my urgency to hunt down Marius’ annoying fledglings.

Louis rose from the bed in spite of my words and walked a little stiffly to dress himself.

That had been hours earlier and now I was on my way back to him, slowing myself down when I reached Jackson Square and taking up a mortal pace--I know how Louis loves to anticipate.

I wondered what sweet little Benji and his mad sister would think of the gifts I’d left for them.

When I reached the corner of Royal and St. Ann I stood still, looking up the street. Pedestrians passed me going in both directions, raucous and excited, but I paid them little mind as I listened. The sounds of mortals and cars and were loud at first, but when I focused my thought the noise gradually became muffled and far away, dreamlike. The figures of people passing me were shadowed and indistinct, seeming to move with especial languor and I watched this phenomenon for a few moments with detached curiosity. I have done this little trick countless times, this intent focusing and I still am not quite certain of the mechanics of it, how I am able to do it at all. 

The curiosity was swept aside when I heard the distant, steady beat of Louis’ immortal heart. The sound came through clearly through the muffled noise that swirled around me and in that moment I knew, though we could not quite touch minds, that he was hearing my heart also. I could hear other things, too; the voices of other immortals, most of them from afar, and all of them, at this moment, at least, nebulous and bent upon their singular concerns. I redirected my thought and closed some mental doors and then all that was clear was that steady thumping and faintly, the rush of his blood, sounding clearer as I moved closer to our home.

 

****

(Louis)

I heard him before I could see him. The sound of his heart was distant thunder, a storm drawing nigh and breathless I waited for more signs of it. He waited far up the street and I fancied I could see him standing a few steps from the curb, motionless and perfect with mortals streaming by him. I know what his face looks like in such a stance, an intensity that probably terrifies those who can bring themselves to look directly at him. Most of them cannot or will not, those mortals. They don’t look because their survival instincts, though buried deeper than they should be, often nip at them to hurry past, to look away lest they burn. So many of them are not aware.

Brian is aware. He stands at the doorway, watching me. His blood races, his thoughts are free flowing and a little frantic, like pebbles tossed on a beach by rough seas. The idea of seeing Lestat makes him so and I know that he will calm down after Lestat is present for a while. Brian anticipates. He’s thinking about me, as well, mulling over the things I’d said. I hear some of it, and it does seem incoherent. But then, he knows only a little.

Lestat came closer, his step lazily deliberate. I saw his familiar shape as he passed under the streetlights. He disappeared under balconies and reappeared moments later. My hands tightened on the rail hard enough that I heard the metal straining. 

“Louis.” Brian said softly. I relaxed my grip somewhat.

The door opened below and I heard Lestat’s feet, lighter now as he took the stairs two at a time. When I turned, Brian moved back into the room, aware of what was to occur and then Lestat was there and all else fell away, all things took their rightful places in my past, at least for now, because he was there, commanding my attention effortlessly. His face was stamped with an innocent happiness, pure pleasure at coming home to me. There followed the familiar heat in his eyes when we came together in a lazy, lingering kiss.

“I heard you, my own,” he murmured when we broke the kiss. He ran his hand up and down my back. “I heard you, and nothing else.”

 

(Brian)

  
****

Incoherent. There was a word-- and how easily Louis was able to turn it back on me. He was correct because that’s just how I feel sometimes when I watch them. Like now, for instance. It’s like a force of nature, or something, even though their greeting at this moment was quiet and even unassuming. It’s what is behind all of it. 

‘I heard you, my own.’ Lestat said to Louis--and it’s the feeling that I can hear there and the intimate pronunciation of the words that makes my flesh ridge and the hairs on my body rise as though in answer to a current of electricity. I’m half-mad from living near them and sometimes I feel like I’m being torn in two from the longing to know what it’s like to love that way and to be loved so in return. Mostly, though, it’s pure ecstasy to watch them, a sort of blissful worship, maybe akin to those dervishes in India who whirl themselves into a state of divine rapture, spinning until they drop dead. Do they see God…or think they do? My guess is that they must, or why do it at all. 

They kissed again, more forcefully and with a small exchange of blood to open their mental link. I have a vague idea of how that works, being subjected to it fairly often and even now and again knowing that I’m saying something to one or the other of them without benefit of my vocal chords. I can hear them, too, if they want me to and that feeling…it can be a secret delight, a stealing warmth…or it can be terrifying if they’re angry or upset and I’m getting any of the brunt of it. 

They began to move, dancing to some music that only they heard, swaying rhythmically and sensuously together. Lestat smiled into Louis’ eyes and their lips were centimeters apart, breath-sharing, scent-sharing. I sat down in one of the armchairs, my muscles suddenly lax. 

They were lost in each other, murmuring in French and still moving about in their dance, bodies yearning together, hands plunged into hair, bright and dark. They are impossibly beautiful, entirely erotic. They are tender together right now, but that is not always so. In an eyeblink they can turn savage, tearing at one another with teeth and nails, feasting on blood and ravaging flesh, yet there is always that underlying tenderness, the fierce love that I can’t bear to look away from. 

It’s changed me, living like this. 

****

**(Lestat)**

The world narrowed to the room we were in, to the arms that held me like I was precious, delicate crystal; to Louis’ eyes, luminescent with desire. The particular sharpness of focus was still upon me and the taste of his blood lingered in my mouth like divine attar, the essences of love and need. He pulled at my lips with his fangs, a tiny, stabbing pain to release a little more blood into his mouth.

Louis sucked my torn lips hard and the tissue swelled as he did so. He hummed with pleasure. How intolerable that we are separated with fabric and leather, how intolerable that we are separated with bone and flesh. He slipped his hands beneath my shirt and the pads of his fingers caressed me. His breathing grew steep and even and the swaying of our bodies and the motion of his hands on my skin prompted me to breathe thus along with him. We turned together inhaling deeply, breathing one another in and then, the sweet release, exhaling from our own humid recesses. Over and over, twisting in a blissful dance and the music of our pulsing hearts and rhythmic lungs was the sweetest of melodies.

The wordless way he gifted me with the things he was feeling reassured me when I had not been aware that I needed it and letting me know that my concern was welcome, though unnecessary. ‘You will find me if I get lost, non?’ He had said several nights back. It had not been a question, though he had phrased it as such. When he wanders, I can always find him and I have come to understand that when the past reaches for him, it’s me that he trusts to keep him anchored. 

Our mouths met in a protracted, crimson kiss, teeth flaying muscled tongues, tasting and bleeding. I was dimly aware that we had begun divesting one another of clothing and that the room was loud with our guttural snarls. Each click and scrape of his teeth against mine, every dart of his limber tongue seemed to burn with distinct brilliance. Louis’ consciousness embraced mine and that, I suppose, was when we fell to the floor, clawing and writhing and straining together.

Febrile images burned in Louis’ mind, tatters from his past overlaid with his urgency. He buried his fangs deep into the muscle of my chest, where the blood wells but does not gush forth. He drank the pain I felt and he drank my love for him. I lay back with my head near the stone hearth, staring up at the glittering chandelier and he crawled onto me, twining his legs around mine. I cradled his head to my bleeding chest and let my mind drift with his.

**(Louis)**

I am blood of his blood and to drink from him has ever been a thing that is holy to me. I am calm in his embrace, content to suckle slowly from the bleeding muscle that bands his chest and feel his hand curved around my head. He feels some physical pain from the place where I am fastened and I try to take that from him and into myself…I love to feel the thunder of his heart against my cheek as I drink.

Lestat’s sexual lust had subsided somewhat and between us in that place where there are no words there is a form of mirth that is freer than laughter, warmer. We shared this pleasure and there was the implied promise that such needs would be seen to, but for now we were content. He did not press me for answers, perhaps knowing there are none; he will wait for me to find my way through the things that haunt me still in spite of the part of him that wishes to shake me free of unquiet ghosts. When I feel him weakening slightly I release him, lapping at the seeping wound until it closed. 

“Take me to bed, darling.” I told him. 

TBC


	6. Games and Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have gone missing in more ways than one.

**~Chapter Six~**

**Brian**

I awakened, disoriented and stiff in the chair that I’d fallen asleep in earlier. The games table near the hearth lay in splintered pieces on the floor, smashed when they’d fallen down together. I had a headache and a useless erection, but I felt peaceful, somehow, thinking about how Lestat’s face had looked when he’d been supine beneath Louis with his eyes trained on the glittering crystals above them. I understood that they were linked, for how else to explain the tranquility I could see in his dilated eyes that overrode all pain, the love that held them together beyond expectation and fear?

I rose from the chair and stretched to ease the kinks from my back. No blood anywhere, just yellow splashes of sunlight and rainbow bars from the beveled edges of the glass in the French doors. I wondered about the table, a pretty antique thing and looking more closely at it, I thought it might be fixable. I wandered across the hall to the office and saw there were messages on the answering machine, two of them; one from Victor Rimbaud from the bank, requesting that Louis please call him at his earliest convenience and one from Marius, spoken in freezing tones, also requesting a phone call or other immediate communication from Lestat. 

I noted these things duly, curious about both messages, particularly the one for Louis. Some art acquisition for the vaults? That was usually the only reason the excitable Rimbaud would call, and he preferred to speak with me when possible. Louis made him absolutely paranoid, and whenever there was any interaction between them, Lestat liked to be present for the sheer joy of watching the poor man skitter back from Louis’ slightest glance.

The call from Marius seemed obvious, considering the news I’d had from our friendly police presence and Lestat’s subsequent reaction to it. I didn’t know where he’d been before he’d come home last night, but from the sound of the message, he’d been up to something. Even when attempting to remain anonymous (for him, anyway), Lestat managed to be involved in some drama or other.

**~Several Hours Later~**

“Why does he wish me to call?” Louis asked lazily, “Usually he speaks with you.”

“Yes, he does. That was the message he left, Louis. I don’t know what he wants. I assumed it was confidential or something, or he would have just called me during the day.” I explained patiently.

“Confidential!” Louis sounded so eerily like Lestat that I glanced at him to make sure it was he who had spoken.

“Well, yeah.” I began

“Nonsense.” Louis said, briskly. “You may inform Monsieur that I have designated you as my agent in this matter, whatever it is.”

They had awakened me from a dead sleep and I sat bleary and befuddled on my couch. I glanced at Lestat to see if there would be any assistance at all from him but he was focused entirely upon Louis, now seated in the leather recliner. “I’ll let you know what he wanted after I call him, then.” I said. 

“Louis?” Lestat spoke up at last, coming belatedly to my rescue, though that most certainly was not his intent. I could see the anticipation creeping into his features.

“ _Chèri?_ Louis said, lowering his head and looking seductively at Lestat.

“Perhaps we might drop in on Victor since he seems determined to speak with you.” Lestat smiled widely. This is a thing that makes me weak in the knees--that fang thing. He winked at me and I had time to think that I was glad I hadn’t yet risen from the couch.

“Do you think so?” Louis said doubtfully. “I’m quite certain Brian can deal with whatever it is.”

“Well, he must think it’s important, considering he wishes to speak with you.” Lestat coaxed.

“He’s too skittish by far.” Louis said peevishly

“Skittish? Ah, _non, mon amour._ Only taken aback by your perfection.”

Louis regarded Lestat with fond exasperation and I knew by the small sigh he released that it wasn’t because of what Lestat had said as much as the disruption of whatever he’d planned for Lestat that night.

“And I suppose you will be calling dear Marius?” he said.

Lestat shrugged. 

“Perhaps tomorrow.” he said, with a considering gleam in his eyes. “Brian? Do please call Victor and advise him that Louis is on his way.” He made one of his extravagant hand gestures and turned to Louis again. “I shall accompany you. What new treasure have you unearthed?”

“I’m quite certain _Monsieur_ Rimbaud did not call to discuss any recent acquisitions.” Louis said, cryptically. Lestat advanced upon him and deposited himself onto Louis’ lap, wriggling about until he’d made himself comfortable with his head resting upon Louis’ shoulder. 

“I’ll make the call.” I said, watching Louis draw his tongue languidly over Lestat’s eyebrow. “What time do you want to meet with him?” 

Louis did not answer, he only kept licking Lestat’s eyebrows, first one and then the other.

“His convenience, _cher._ ” Lestat said after a long pause. Louis was not inclined to abandon his assiduous grooming to answer such a mundane question. "And get dressed. You wouldn't want to miss the fun, would you?"

I grinned at him and got up to make the call.

**(Louis)**

“There really is no need to go there, Lestat.” I said as Brian criss-crossed the room in search of the remote phone. “He _did_ request that I phone him, after all.”

“It’s been some time since we visited Victor.” Lestat said. The moment I stopped licking his face he began wriggling about again, attempting to straddle me in the heavily padded leather chair. It was just wide enough for him to get his legs on either side of my thighs with his ass perched just above my knees but very obviously this was not enough contact for him.

“Found it.” Brian muttered. I glanced over Lestat’s shoulder to see him holding the phone and watching Lestat’s maneuvers interestedly. “Lean back, Louis. It’s a recliner.” Brian said helpfully. I did and Lestat abandoned the effort to straddle me and instead settled his body on top of mine.

“As I was saying,” Lestat said, with a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth. “It’s been some time since we called on Victor. I think a visit is in order.”

“As you say,” I acquiesced. His eyes were deeply blue at the moment. Ocean depths. Would I refuse him his distraction? And his distraction would provide me with distraction of my own.

Brian made the call, walking into the kitchen. We could hear him rummaging around as he spoke.

“You know, then, what he wants?” Lestat asked. 

“I have an idea, yes.” I told him, smiling. He cocked his head. 

“Well?”

“It will keep. I wouldn’t dream of spoiling your entertainment.”

A slow smile bloomed on his mouth and the heat in my belly increased exponentially.

“What have you done? Tell me!” he demanded.

“ _Petit curieux._ ” I said fondly. “Brian has confirmed our visit, so now you will have to wait.” 

“Evil Louis.” 

Brian came out of his kitchen and bit into something crisp. The scent of apples drifted through the room.

“You’ve got about an hour.” He said, conversationally. He took another bite of his apple. Lestat smiled at me, his eyes soft with sudden memory.

“That smells good.” Lestat said to Brian. His eyes did not leave mine.

“Winesap.” Brian said. “My brother sent them down. Can’t find a decent apple here.” 

“The best apple I ever tasted came from here.” Lestat said. “Remember, Louis?”

“I remember.” 

His mouth was a breath away from mine.

“You ate an apple--here?” Brian said, suddenly alert. “But…”

“I’ll tell you the story, sometime.” Lestat interrupted. He pushed himself up from me with a flex of arms and legs and was suddenly on his feet, hand extended. I took it. “We called them pépin in those days, Brian, but I don’t know what the variety was.”

“It was one of the Reinettes.” I said softly. “My father brought a sapling from France and it grew behind the kitchen house.”

Lestat looked long into my eyes.

“Reinette, then.” He murmured, giving me a curiously chaste kiss. He turned to look at Brian. “We’ll take Louis’s car, yes?”  
 ****

(Narration)

Victor Rimbaud hung up the phone and slumped back in his chair. Coming here. In an hour’s time, no less. How on earth was he going to explain the situation to _Monsieur_ Pointe du Lac?

Rimbaud was a powerful man in New Orleans. He'd devoted thirty-seven years to Whitney National Bank and he’d made a name for himself. He'd been President of the bank for over a decade. Wealthy and well connected, Victor Rimbaud was humiliated to feel so unmanned at the thought of confronting Louis de Pointe du Lac. Somehow the vault that housed several dozen pieces of fine artwork (among other things) had been opened and three pieces of Pointe du Lac’s collection were no longer there. Every piece was carefully wrapped, each one numbered. There was a monthly check of the items at Msr. Lioncourt’s behest and it was in this way that the removal of the objects had been discovered. It would not do for anyone else but Victor to present this dismaying news, but he wished mightily he could have passed it off to a subordinate.

Pointe du Lac and Lioncourt. Victor shuddered.

Whitney National handled the pair’s local banking needs as well acting as their international banking liaison with Rothschild’s in Switzerland. Monsieur Lioncourt insisted that Rimbaud deal with himself and Pointe du Lac personally. Victor did so because, of course, it would be foolish to turn away the sort of business those two offered. 

Victor Rimbaud knew what sort of creatures they were. Oh yes. It was not exactly a major secret. In the rarified circles that he moved in there were several people he was sure were in possession of this information. It was treated in the same circumspect manner reserved for corrupt politicians, organized crime leaders and the petroleum corporate CEOs. A sort of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ thing. All of these people could be dangerous; people who wielded large amounts of money also wielded power. None of them affected him the way Pointe du Lac did, however. Not even Lestat de Lioncourt affected him in the same way.

Rimbaud ran a hand distractedly through his dark hair, silvered at the temples. He’d sent his secretary on her way, though she had volunteered to stay if he needed her to. He assured her that it was not necessary. A glance at the venerable grandfather clock in his sumptuous office told him that only five minutes had passed. Based upon past experience he knew that there was every chance that they could show up at any time from now until well past the agreed upon hour. He opened his top drawer and rummaged around until he found the little brown prescription bottle. He rarely took the Valium, but he felt that one was in order. Perhaps if Louis de Pointe du Lac decided to kill him it would not be quite so bad if he was sedated.

He heard the elevator chime softly and immediately afterward the clock began striking the hour. Eleven PM. Victor stifled a hysterical little giggle. Banker’s hours? The door to Raylene’s office had been left invitingly open as was the door to his own office. Rimbaud had time to hear them conversing in liquid French before Msr. Lioncourt strode through the door flanked by Pointe du Lac and Lestat’s assistant, Brian Callahan. The banker rose shakily to his feet.

“Victor! _Mon ami_.” Lestat said expansively. He leaned across the breadth of Rimbaud’s oak desk with his hand extended. Victor reached automatically and Lestat shook his hand warmly.

“Good evening _Messieurs._ ” Rimbaud said, executing an awkwardly stiff little bow. He looked Lestat in the eye for a moment and was encouraged by the friendly expression until he remembered what the meeting was about. Reluctantly he turned to look at Louis and to shake his hand, should Louis offer it. He didn’t.

Louis was not even looking at him, having strayed to the wide window with its view of the city. He stood looking out at the lights, with his hands clasped behind his back. Victor licked his lips nervously and if he had seen the way Lestat’s eyes narrowed in that moment he might have rethought his earlier notion of Lestat’s friendliness. 

“Monsieur?” Lestat said, tapping the desk with a shining fingernail. Louis turned from the window at the sound and caught Victor briefly in his gaze. 

“Why don’t we all sit down.” Victor said faintly. “I’m afraid I have some rather distressing news.”

“Do you, now.” Lestat said, seating himself and nodding to Brian to sit down beside him. Louis remained where he was, still and unblinking. After ascertaining that Louis was not going to move, Victor cleared his throat.

“I regret to bring this news to you, _Monsieur_ Pointe du Lac.” Rimbaud said nervously. “I’m afraid there are some pieces missing from the collection in your vault. I assure you that we are investigating the incident fully and if you should wish to report the incident…”

“How is this possible?” Lestat demanded imperiously. “I was under the impression that only three people other than yourself, of course, had the codes to that vault. Which pieces are missing?”

“As you are aware, the pieces are all in protective cases or wrappings. Each piece sits upon a numbered shelf and is itself numbered…”

“Which pieces?” Lestat said in freezing tones. Brian glanced past him to where Louis stood. Louis’ attention had shifted to Lestat and Brian had the sudden idea that Louis might begin to growl or drool or something, judging by the hungry gleam he saw in the green eyes.

Rimbaud stood up and offered Lestat a folder. Lestat regarded it coldly. “I’m to read that, am I? Don’t you know what is missing? ”

“All manner of things are missing, Lestat.” Louis said from his position across the room.

“Oh, no, _Monsieur_ …there was a thorough inventory made after the removal was discovered…”

“Removal?” Lestat snapped. He was enjoying himself.

“Even now the surveillance tapes are being reviewed…”

“What. Is. Missing.” Lestat enunciated.

Rimbaud consulted his folder.

“Antique chest. Carved rosewood with brass fittings and lock. Portrait of a young girl in oils, sized 14 inches by 19 inches in an ebony frame inlaid with cherry wood and an oval miniature in oils, 5inches by 4 inches of a young Negro woman in a carved frame of ivory.”

“Brian!” Lestat said in vexed tones. “You have the code to the vault. Perhaps you brought these things back to the flat?”

Brian shook his head. He did indeed have the code to this vault, just as he had the codes and the keys to many other places around the city. He had never even been in the particular vault in question. “No, Monsieur.” he said. He was well-acquainted with Lestat’s penchant for the dramatic scene. Louis’ distance was rather perplexing since he’d been bantering with Lestat about the visit before they’d left, but he’d seen enough of such scenes to know that things were apt to take an interesting turn at any time. Brian tended to be deeply suspicious of those people who knew about Lestat and Louis but kept their silence for business reasons, so he had little sympathy for Rimbaud.

“Skittish, Lestat. Just as I said.” Louis said, fixing Rimbaud with a withering stare.

“As well he should be.” Lestat said darkly. “And for what reason, I wonder? The missing items? One would think such a place as this would be impregnable.”

“ _Monsieur_ Lioncourt, I assure you…”

“Your assurances fall flat.” Lestat snapped. “I find that my faith in this…institution…is crumbling as the moments tick by and Louis’ belongings are still mysteriously removed.”

“Ah, Lelio…” Louis said from the window.  
 ****

(Lestat)

At Louis’ soft remark it was all I could do to keep from turning to him. Louis was not about to give the game up and so neither would I.

“ _Monsieur,_ I will personally take on the responsibility of the investigation.”

“There was never any doubt of that, was there?” I asked him silkily.

Rimbaud looked completely flustered for a moment but regained himself admirably. “As you say. There is a possibility that the items were removed for insurance evaluation or inspection and…”

“I care nothing for your excuses or policies or surveillance tapes. You are boring me, Victor and when I am bored I tend to become impetuous.” I stood up and placed my hands upon the surface of his expensive desk. “You might not care to see that side of me. “ To his credit he did not shrink back, he only gazed steadily at me. This was a good thing for I was more on edge than I had realized, caught up in the little drama and feeling a rather intense convergence of emotions and scents swirling about the room. Had Rimbaud flinched I may have actually done something impetuous instead of just implying it. It’s happened before.

“The St. Georges in Paris.” Louis remarked idly. It really is uncanny how he can tell what I am thinking. Veil of silence? It grows thin. 

“Mr. Rimbaud,” Brian said smoothly, rising from his chair and standing beside me. “Perhaps it would be best if you looked into this matter further and we can just take it from there.” He placed his hand lightly on my shoulder and I stood up from my leaning position. “Unless _les Messieurs_ have instructed you otherwise, it might be a good idea for you to inform me as to the problem should anything like this happen again, so as not to waste time.”

Louis moved across the room like oiled smoke, so fast that neither Brian nor Rimbaud saw him until he was standing next to Rimbaud’s chair. The banker started violently, all semblance of calm evaporating as Louis leaned over him. “You don’t want to call us to your office again anytime soon.” Louis said softly. He ran his hand across the fine fabric of Rimbaud’s handmade silk shirt. His fingers loosened Rimbaud’s necktie and he dragged his fingernail down the pulsing vein in the banker’s tanned neck. He took a step forward and bent further at the waist to look Rimbaud in the face.

“Please…” Rimbaud rasped.

But Louis was gone.

**(Brian)**

After the encounter with Rimbaud they were restless and edgy, Louis in particular. He left the flat for hours at a time. Lestat came by one night to hand over a stack of things I’d been after him to sign, things that he normally would have just flicked through and left on his desk for me to disperse. He prowled restively about my living room, aggressively feline. His abnormally quick movements as well as occasional soft growls telegraphed very clearly his displeasure with his inability to ease Louis through the painful time he was enduring.

The past is the past. Get on with it--seek therapy. These are things that humans tell themselves when the things we bury in memory reach out for us. I’ve been around these two long enough to know that the past is somehow more palpable to them. Lestat once described his memory as being completely eidetic. Things that happened to him as a child, even as a baby, that he did not recall as a mortal young man were as accessible to him as something that had happened to him five minutes before.

His temperament is entirely different from Louis’ and he is not given to brooding but I recall a time a few years ago perhaps a year after he’d come out of his stasis or coma or whatever it was. He had received a letter from Gabrielle that had thrown him into a state of black depression for several weeks and I’d heard and seen enough to know that it was not just the fact that he’d heard nothing at all from her since he’d come back home.

“You’re awfully pensive tonight, Brian,” he said peevishly. “I have become accustomed to more chatter from you.”

I was only slightly taken aback by his words. “Do you want to catch a movie to pass a little time? Or maybe some shopping? The bracelet you had made for Louis is done. You wished to pick it up yourself, I think.”

He stared at me and I closed my mouth. “You must think me very shallow.” 

Well, that pricked a little. “No. I think you’re stressed out because you don’t like it when you can’t act. I know you’re worried about Louis, but you’ve told me several times that when he gets like this he needs to have time to himself. That’s what you’re doing for him.”

His expression didn’t change--he still looked haughty, as though I’d given great offense, but the annoyance at my frivolous suggestions for diversion was gone from him. “I don’t feel like a movie. It’s probably not a good idea for me to be around too many people just now,” he said with a slight lift of his lips. 

I have finally become used to such remarks. He usually tosses them at me in a teasing manner, but I thought he was serious about it this time. It was a little beyond me to go so far as to ask him why he would bother to deny himself that particular diversion, but I thought it was along the lines of him knowing it wasn’t going to satisfy him in the least. He changed the subject.

“Have we heard from the lawyers concerning the missing items at the bank?” 

“I spoke to Blancmange today. He didn’t quite know what to make of the idea that you didn’t wish to sue for the insurance money that would cover the items.”

“It’s the principal of the thing. If Louis could get in there undetected, there are others that could as well. Suing for breach of trust was the only thing I could come up with.” 

“The others are not interested, Lestat. You’re messing with him, aren’t you?”

He relented with a sudden grin. “Maybe. When did you grow a conscience, by the way?”

“Hey…you’re the boss. If you want to open up a whole can of worms with the legal system just to tug Gerry’s short and curlies, who am I to stand in your way?”

He snorted and made a face. “Call Persephone tomorrow and tell her I changed my mind about it. There. Happy now?”

I shrugged. “Either way, Lestat. You know you would have been bored with the endless paperwork and phone calls after a while.”

“ _C’est vrai,_ ” he said. “I’m going to go divert myself on the Harley. I have my mobile if you need to find me.” His mood had shifted once more and his eyes, his beautiful eyes were intense and serious.

“Sure, Lestat.” I told him. He was suddenly just not in the room and moments later I heard him roar out of the carriageway.  
 ****

(Lestat)

I took the bike up onto the highway and wove my way through the late night traffic. Once I was away from the city, the traffic was lighter still and I opened the throttle, cresting at about 160. I roared along at this pace for a while, trying to let the speed and the rushing wind clear my mind, but it wasn’t working. All I could think of was Louis when he left the house upon awakening. His kiss was as warm as ever on my mouth, but I disliked the strangeness I saw in his eyes, a sort of frozen pain.

Things were coming into his mind, he told me. The past twisting its way into the present, frayed threads from an unraveled skein. He still has ties to the mortal world he left behind two centuries ago, and because these ties mean something to him, they have come to mean something to me as well. 

He gave me Yvette’s letters to read, missives written before I knew him, things that were happening when I was a newly fledged vampire and passing through fires of my own. Even for as long as we have known one another, there was so much that went unsaid between us in the beginning and so much still to learn even now. That he was so focused upon the letters and that he'd taken them from the vault at the bank along with the miniature of Yvette and the portrait…which I had yet to see…of a child told me that there was more going on than painful reminiscence.

Louis has always done things in his own way. He can be most accommodating and deferential when he wants to be but when his mind is set I defy anyone to make him change it. I should know; I spent much too long trying to change him into what I thought I wanted when all along it was his singularity that had brought us together in the first place.

I got off the highway and headed back to New Orleans using the secondary roads. I was mindful for once of time passing because I wanted to be home before the sun rose. Once off the highway I throttled down, riding along at a more sedate pace through small towns and the smoke that rose from the eerie glow of cane stubble burning. Past raucous roadhouses and ugly refineries and over the bridges that spanned the network of the bayous. The swamps still look the same in the moonlight as they did long ago except for the areas where the cypresses have fallen victim to the evil petrochemical spills.

The child in the portrait. It was not Claudia. We have, both of us, put her to rest. I had not seen the portrait yet, but I knew it wasn’t our daughter. Who, then? Louis will tell me when he is ready. When he’s thought it through and found his way through memory and all the things which accompany such a journey.

It’s hard to wait, though. It hurts to be closed from his mind because he has always so easily given himself to me; he was always mine for the asking. The trouble is, I don’t always know the questions.  
 ****

(Narrative)

Louis let himself into the darken house, closing the door and leaning back against it for a moment. Lestat was not in the house; he’d known that a block away. No lights, no noise. Lestat’s scent was faint in the foyer where they spent very little time and so Louis progressed slowly up the stairs, breathing shallowly through his mouth. The office on the left, yes. He could smell Lestat there and Brian as well, because Brian spent a good deal of his time in there. Louis passed it by and went into the parlour. Stronger. Recent, even, only hours old. Where was he, shining angel? Nowhere near, no vibration of him, no tremor to pluck the fibers of Louis’ soul, no thrum to quicken him. He was cold.

 

Dark room, tenebrous room. Louis heard the rhythmic clatter of hooves passing by the house and he shivered, crossing his arms and cupping his elbows. There were so many reverberations in this room, this house, this city. Sometimes his head rang with echoes and swam with wavering visions. He fancied he could smell lavender and lemon balm, those herbs Yvette would use to freshen the linens. Yvette with her tilted eyes and her quick mind. Whatever would she say if she could see him thus?

Louis laughed, then, and the sound was no more human than the snarl of a wolf; his head felt filled with broken glass. His fingers punched through the fabric of his shirt, nails digging into the flesh of his upper arms. The air was suddenly deep with the scent of drawn blood. There, at last, was solace. Lestat; so much a part of him. 

In the distance he heard it, the familiar choppy, guttural rumble. That was Lestat’s bike. That was Lestat rushing through the night to come to him. Louis sank back into one of the upright wing chairs, relief washing over him in a palpable flood. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds as they passed, listening as the roar became louder and louder, drowning the echoes and shattering the visions.  
 ****

(Lestat)

The scent of Louis’ blood was a beacon in the darkness of the flat and I flew up the stairs to him. We came together in the shadowy hallway. He’d been dragging furrows in his upper arms--the wounds were gone but his shredded shirt was wet with blood. I put my arm about his shoulders and drew him into our bedroom. He lifted his arms, acquiescent as an exhausted child, so I could draw the bloody shirt over his head. I unbuttoned his trousers and slid them over his hips, waiting for him to step out of them, one foot at a time.

Louis’ arms were streaked with blood and his chest was daubed with it so I took a few minutes to lick him clean. His passivity made me feel anxious but I forced that aside, concentrating instead on soothing him. After a little while he placed his hands on my shoulders. “Lestat. Take me to bed,” he whispered, leaning toward me. The tension seemed to drain from his body and he swayed slightly. “I’m so tired.”

I led him to the bed and he crept under the bedclothes, watching me as I undressed, his eyes wide in the darkness. I got in beside him and he came into my arms, shivering. “…tired,” he said again, pressing his face into my neck. I smoothed his hair with gentle fingers and kissed the tip of his ear. I wanted to ask him what I could do for him. I wanted him to tell me why he was looking to the past, but I stayed quiet, only humming under my breath and stroking his head rhythmically. His shivering stopped and his breathing slowed as he drifted to sleep.

(TBC)


	7. Missing Persons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A betrayal of trust is followed by swift retribution.

**~Chapter Seven~**

I'd been in the office for several hours, working on correspondence when the phone rang. 

“Brian?”

“Yes…who’s this?”

“This is Perry. Look, Tracy Harvey’s not at work today.”

I paused, baffled. I had as little to do with Tracy Harvey as possible. Perry’s voice sounded a little tighter than normal. “Pardon me, Perry, but I care why?”

“Actually, nobody cares and it’s been a fairly decent morning without her, but when I was in the ladies’ room twenty minutes ago I heard one of the secretaries say they saw Tracy with Louis over on Dauphine last night.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Hang on a minute, would you?”

“Sure.”

I stepped out of the office and went down the hall to their bedroom to look inside. The light was on and Lestat was asleep…alone…on the large four poster bed. He lay across the bed as though he had fallen there; his legs were half off the mattress and he was wearing a robe. Louis was nowhere in sight. 

Not. Good.

I went back to the office and picked the phone up. “Where does Tracy live?” Perry gave me the address. “Can you meet me there in half an hour?”

“Yes.” she said, her voice low.

**(Brian)**

I met Perry in front of Tracy Harvey’s place. “She had a spare key in her desk.” Perry said as we went up to the house. “With a spare car key.”

We let ourselves in and Perry called Tracy’s name a few times, in case she was in there but there was no answer. A cursory look was enough to insure that the apartment was empty. In the bedroom Perry said, “Here’s the scarf she was wearing yesterday. The Hermés silk that she just got.”

I took it from her and looked at it. There were several tiny spots on it that did not match the pattern or colors of the scarf. Dried blood if I was any judge and I was not in the least bit surprised. “Perry, pack a suitcase as though Tracey were leaving for a few days. Put in anything she would normally take with her. If her purse is here, put that inside.”

“Someplace, where?” Her voice was flat.

I turned to look at her. I had some sympathy for what she was suddenly going through, but in for a penny, in for a pound as they say. “Listen…you called me, right? So you know something’s not right. We need to move this along Perry, because if you noticed she’s not around, other people will too. Just do this, please. I’m going to look around a little. Don’t touch anything that you don’t have to, okay?”

She nodded once and went to do as I asked. I went into Tracy’s home office and turned the light on. There were notes and piles of file folders on her desk, nothing that meant anything to me—that is until I came across a business card that said “We Watch and We are Always Here”. The card was paper-clipped to a folder and a quick look inside showed that all of them were copies of documents that had the names Lioncourt and Pointe du Lac on them. There was also a sheet of paper with three of Lestat’s current aliases in what looked like a hasty scrawl. I turned the card over and on the back there was a name and phone number written in a neat hand. The number was local. I read the front of the card again. I knew those words and at that moment I was pretty sure I’d never have to deal with the chilly Ms. Harvey again.

Perry came down the hall with the suitcase and looked into the room. “All set,” she said. She was nervous, but still holding it together. I nodded, pocketing the card and gathering up the folder and the scarf, I followed after her down the hall. I didn’t want to spend any more time there than absolutely necessary.

“Did anyone else comment on Tracy’s absence?” I asked her.

I don’t think so.” 

“Good.” 

Perry watched me wipe things down with a speculative gaze. “She’s dead, isn’t she.” She said dully. I’d finished up and gotten her to the door.

“Probably, yeah.” I said as we closed the door, I wiped the doorknob clean as I had everything we’d touched when inside. “Follow me back to the flat.” I said, taking the suitcase from her as we went down the front walk. She hesitated. I resisted the urge to look around to see if anyone had seen us. She touched my arm.

“I can’t, Brian. I have to go back to work--it would look funny.”

I thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. After work, then.” 

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. What will you do now?”

“Wait.” I said simply. She bit at the inside of her cheek as she watched me toss the case into the trunk of the Infiniti.

**(Narrative)**

When Perry got back to the office it seemed that no one had really missed her, so she sat down at her desk and did her best to immerse herself in her work. It wasn’t easy, especially with Gerry peering owlishly out at her every time she walked by his office door.

Tracy Harvey dead? She was having a difficult time with that. Not in a mourning kind of way, because God knew there was no love lost between her and Tracy. As cold as it sounded, she’d often thought it would be so much better around the office if the woman would haul up stakes and just leave. 

Her stomach was in knots for she knew that she could be considered an accessory to a crime for her actions of this morning alone. Even as she wondered about her sense of priority she knew she would do the same thing again even given time for thought. When she heard Wendy and Jasmine talking about seeing Tracy with Louis in the Quarter all she could think of to do was to call Brian. Perry leaned her head on one hand. Could it have been Louis? She hated to think of it. The idea of vampires had seemed a lot more abstract up until now. And then there was Brian and the matter-of-fact way he’d handled the whole thing. Perry supposed that was what his so-called job was really all about.

“Perry, has Tracy called in today? No one seems to have seen her.” It was Gerry, standing over her desk and watching her with particularly sharp interest. Or was that her paranoia talking? She felt a headache burgeoning.

“I haven't spoken to her. Did she have court today? Maybe she’s downtown.”

“It’s just strange that she hasn’t called in at all.” Gerry said, parking a hip on the edge of her desk. “Wendy said she was down the Quarter last night and saw her with Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

Perry shrugged. “He lives in the Quarter. If she saw him she would make it a point to talk to him. She’s made it clear that she finds him fascinating.”

“She’s not the only one, I think.” Gerry said with a sly smile that made her feel like knocking him across the room.

“You should know,” she snapped. She instantly regretted that, because she usually made it a point to show Gerry very little in the way of emotion. She foresaw an exhausting day, and yet…and yet…she was exhilarated. She was going to their home. It frightened her a little. She’d never felt much fear around Louis, for he had always been so kind to her, so charming. Lestat was a different story. He, too, was unfailingly charming, but she sensed something beneath his beautiful smile, something she couldn’t quite put a finger on.  
She realized that Gerry was peaking to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”

“…a million miles away, girl. Are you feeling alright?”

She detested it when he called her ‘girl’. “Just a headache,” she said.

He straightened up. “I said let me know if you hear from Tracy.”

Wendy stuck her head in Perry’s doorway. “Gerry…line three is for you. Mr. Gibeault.”

“Thanks.” Gerry said. “Perry, you ought to take something for that headache.” He left her tiny office and 

Wendy came in. “Can I get you some aspirin? You look a little pale.” The genuine note of concern in Wendy’s voice made Perry relent and she nodded. 

“If you wouldn’t mind.” Perry smiled wanly at her. Wendy nodded and went briskly back down the narrow hallway.

“Damn.” Perry muttered. She vowed to pull herself together, and after Wendy gave her the aspirin she plowed into her work.

**(Lestat)**

I came to full and abrupt consciousness knowing that Louis was not with me. The lights were on and I was lying awkwardly across the bed. When I had come in late the night before I’d found a note from him saying that he would be back. The note had not said _when_ he would back, however. I stood in the middle of the room, listening closely. Normal household sounds. Brian in the foyer, banging away on the stairs with a hammer, one of his endless repairs. Someone was with him. A familiar scent. I dismissed it for the moment, distressed that I could not hear Louis’s steady heartbeat or sense his immediate presence. Where was he?

I stepped into the hall and went to the library. Dark and empty. Shutting the door rather forcefully, I checked both of the spare bedrooms, even though I knew very well he was not in the house. Compulsive behavior, Brian would say. I slammed the door to the second bedroom so hard that it snapped back open. Snarling, I yanked it off the hinges.

Histrionic? Why, yes. The small violence soothed my frustration somewhat. I have never been possessed of a great deal of patience and Louis’ vagueness over a period of weeks had been perhaps more wearing than I had realized. He was not in the office. He was not in the house. I roared out his name, and that sudden sound drew me back somewhat. I stood at the top of the stairs. “Brian? Have you heard from Louis?”

****

(Brian)

Perry had come over directly from work while Lestat was still asleep. She sat at the bottom of the front staircase watching me as I replaced several of the turned posts that supported the graceful banister. She had politely declined my offer of a drink upon her arrival. “Okay, then. How’d it go at the office? I asked, removing the boards from the step I was fitting the post into. I glanced at her and she regarded me with her solemn dark eyes.

“Gerry asked me if I’d heard from her. I told him I hadn’t. He knows that Wendy saw Tracy with Louis last night. It wasn’t like he thought anything had happened. He was mostly baiting me with it.” She colored slightly at that. 

“Yeah. He’s pretty good at that. Was that all?” She nodded. “Well, then. I guess you have some questions. You might not like the answers, but you’ve landed on both feet so far.”

Having fitted the post, I replaced the first board and began nailing it into place with precise strokes of the hammer.

“Who did it?” she asked when I stopped hammering and reached for the second board. “Was it Lestat?”

I looked at her oddly, the hammer loose in my hand. “Did Wendy say she saw her with Lestat?” I asked reasonably. I looked back at the second floorboard and positioned it carefully.

“Well…no. But I had the idea that Lestat was, you know. More predatory. Something.”

I checked the short laugh that tried to escape. “You have it backwards.” I told her. “Lestat is actually a lot more predictable when it comes to that little detail of their lives.”

Perry shook her head as though to negate my words. I don’t think she was even aware of it. “Lestat always looked at her like he would like to …” she waved a hand feebly.

“Lestat is far less likely to kill someone he knows than Louis, in spite of what you may have read.” She looked at me mildly, as though I were simple-minded. I shrugged slightly and nailed the second board back into place. “It’s a little different when it becomes real, isn’t it?” I asked her pointedly. I didn’t like to be so blunt, but I felt like she needed a little reality check. “Hand me that pry bar, please?”

She took the bar from the toolbox on the first step and handed it to me. “Was it really him?”

I nodded, and positioned the bar carefully beneath the lip of the next step. “Louis is not here. I looked in their room, and only Lestat was there.” I pushed down carefully on the pry bar and the board lifted with a protesting squeal. "And I found something disturbing in Tracy’s house.”

She seemed glad for something other than Louis’ lethal nature to focus upon. “What did you find?”

“There’s a folder on the table by the front door there,” I said, removing the splintered post with some difficulty. “Have a look.”

Perry stood up and went across the marble floor to get the folder. “We watch and we are always here.” She read aloud from the card paper clipped to the top of the folder.

“Recognize that pleasant little motto?”

She settled back down on the second step, and met my eyes, nodding. “The organization that David Talbot was part of, right? What was the name? I haven’t looked at those books in a long time.”

I picked up the new post and worked it into position under the banister. “Talamasca,” I said. “The folder has copies of their most recent real estate acquisitions as well as several transactions for pieces of art, which, by the way, had nothing at all to do with the firm.”

“She was working for them?” Perry asked incredulously.

“Looks that way.” I heard a soft sound from upstairs; Lestat was awake. I turned the post into the proper position slipped the board back into place. Behind me, Perry rifled through the papers.

“I can’t believe Tracy would do this. She’s a really pain in the ass, but she’s a partner, for heaven's sake.” She closed the folder. “Was a partner.

From above there was the sound of a door being closed with a bit of force. Perry jumped and looked at me. “Lestat’s awake,” I told her. “And he’s not happy. There’s more going on than this.” I waved at the folder and turned back to my work.

“Should I ask what?” she said.

“No time now,” I answered, hammering the board back into place. There came another, louder bang from above followed by a rending sound and a crash. Cursing in two languages. “He’ll know you’re here, but by the sound of it he’s not going to be inclined to polite conversation. Don’t get freaked out, just stay calm.” I handed her the pry bar and she put it in the toolbox with an unsteady hand. Lestat roared out Louis’ name loudly enough to hurt my ears. The windows rattled faintly. Perry’s dark eyes were huge. 

“Calm.” I repeated. She swallowed and nodded. Lestat came to the top of the stairs and stared down at us imperiously.

“Brian? Have you heard from Louis?”

“No. And there are no messages.” I said. His eyes blazed. The robe hung open, revealing his perfect, tawny body. I heard Perry’s sudden intake of breath.

Lestat shifted his gaze to Perry, nostrils flaring rhythmically for a moment. “And you, Persephone. Have you heard from Louis?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said. Her voice was steady, if a bit higher than usual.

 

****

(Narrative) 

Sitting on the step as she watched Brian work made Perry wonder if she had begun some sort of descent into madness. The folder in her hands was solid enough and so where the stairs that she was sitting on. The things Brian was saying did not sound at all mad when he said them, and the calm, assured way he methodically worked on the repairs he was making belied what she saw as the enormity of the situation. How was it, then, that she had come to be sitting in this house, of all houses, discussing the dubious activities that one of her now-late employers had been engaged in.

There was a lot of information in the file, but Perry thought much of it could have been had by a little searching in the New Orleans City Records office or the tax assessor’s office. She was about to say as much to Brian when she heard a loud bang from the second floor. It was followed by other, more violent sounds. Cursing in French and English.

Brian said something meant to be reassuring, she supposed, but her heart was hammering with fear reaction. She took the pry bar he was holding out to her and put it into the toolbox, uttering a stifled, hysterical giggle.

“Brian? Have you heard from Louis?” A voice from above, she thought, knowing full well who it was. She looked up and saw him, naked but for a silk robe. She gasped involuntarily.

“No. No messages either.” Brian said calmly.

Perry could not take her eyes from Lestat. When his gaze shifted to her she felt drowned in his cold blue stare. Was this the same charming person who poured hot water for tea in her kitchen? 

“And you, Persephone. Have you heard from Louis?” He asked.

The same person, she thought. The other side of the coin. Half the picture. She swallowed, throat clicking dryly. “No, I haven’t.” 

Lestat held her eyes for a long moment. Brian moved slightly so that he blocked Lestat’s gaze and the vampire turned suddenly, disappearing into the office. Brian turned to Perry. “Take it easy, Perry. Don’t be afraid. Just follow my lead if you can. Do you understand?” He did not lower his voice, she noticed. She glanced up the stairs again, eyes still wide. Brian put a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed a little. “Do you understand? Don’t. Be. Afraid.” 

Perry blinked and then nodded. There was the sudden trill of a cell phone, one of four lying amid several sets of keys on the table by the front door. “Fuck’s SAKE.” Brian muttered, moving past her. “Louis left the cell phone here.” From the office came the sound of something small hitting the wall with terrific force.

“ _Merde_!” Lestat had realized it as well.

“Shouldn’t you tell him about Tracy?” Perry said urgently. “Louis was with her. Can’t he just go to her place and smell where Louis went or something?”

“Brian, would you come upstairs, please? Persephone as well.’

Brian looked at Perry. “Ready?” She nodded and he gestured her up the stairs.

**(Lestat)**

I heard them talking. It would not have mattered to me, except that I heard Persephone mention Louis’ name. I could have read their thoughts but there was no reason for it, really. Brian would tell me whatever it was that they were nattering on about and it would be much clearer than trying to sort through the sea of images that exist within any given person’s waking thoughts.

It may seem absurd that I worry about Louis. He’s quite capable of taking care of himself, of course. There are few among our race that are better at it, though I am sure some of them would find that statement arguable. Something was going on with him, something that was causing him distress and for whatever reason he had opted to wander the path alone. It’s happened before, though the circumstances and reasons were different. I dislike feeling helpless and that was exactly what I was experiencing. It does nothing at all for my mood. I bit back a snarl.

Persephone came into the room with Brian immediately behind her. She was doing her level best to maintain her composure. Brian leaned against the door frame, watching me with his calm and worshipful eye. 

“Sit down, both of you.” I said irritably, waving to the small leather sofa at the other side of the room. Perry went to the sofa and sat down but Brian moved around the desk and opened the French doors to let in the night air. It had begun to rain. After he joined her on the couch I leaned back in the chair. “Now, suppose you tell me whatever it was you were rambling on about downstairs.”

Brian did, explaining the events of the morning as concisely as he could. His recitation was punctuated with asides and adjuncts from Perry and as the story unfolded, the remark I’d heard her make when they had been in the foyer, the one about me smelling Louis at Tracy’s house, made a little more sense. I would have been amused if I wasn’t in such a vile frame of mind. Hearing that Louis had very probably killed one of our lawyers did nothing to lift my spirits, either.

For the first time that evening I felt a small wave of trepidation from Brian. I looked pointedly at him. “But wait! There’s more!” I said snidely. “What is it, man?”

He rose and came to the desk to hand me the folder that he’d been holding on his lap. “This was in Tracy’s home office.” Brian said.

The first thing I saw was that innocuous little business card clipped to the outside of the folder. Innocuous, the size of it. Millions of these cards are handed round each day in this country. This one was fine linen stock with elegant raised script. “We watch.” I muttered. A clean, cold wave of fury washed over me. When I looked through the documents in the folder, I felt myself grow colder still. I would have killed her myself, yes indeed. Brian, no doubt sensing this cold rage, backed away slowly.

“Meddling when they have been duly warned.” I said softly. I glanced at Brian. “Samples, you see. Our handwriting. Our acquisitions. And look! Several of my aliases. How they love to document. Lists and papers. When we leave a place they take that which we cast away. They say that they do not meddle, Brian, but they do. They do. None of this is secret information.” I hurled the folder to the floor, scattering the papers. “None of it is, yet they would approach someone in our employ and ferret out other secrets. It starts this way. Betrayal. They deal in it.”

“There’s a name on the back of the card.” Brian said. “And a telephone number.”

“Is there, now.” I said meditatively. I made no move to pick up the folder. “Is there indeed.” I rose from the chair. “First things first, yes?“

I moved past Brian and went to stand by the open door. Louis had gone with her to her home. It was entirely possible, I knew that he had killed her without any knowledge of the folder. What had she said to him?

“Persephone.” 

“Yes?”

I could hear the anxiousness in her voice. Smell her fear. I breathed it in, closing my eyes. “Why did you call Brian? Why not the police?”

She hesitated. I was not looking at her, but I could hear the shift in her breathing and the dry click in her throat as she swallowed. “Louis,” she said at last.

Right answer, I thought. I heard Brian release a pent-up breath. He knew it, too. I turned to look at her, still seated on the edge of the leather sofa.“Even though you knew what he might have done?”

“I thought it was you,” she said, without thinking. Her eyes widened. I smiled grimly.

“An honest answer. Go on.

Her eyes shone with tears but she blinked and did not let them fall. “I didn’t want to see him hurt.” Persephone muttered. She held my gaze.

“Hurt?” 

“He would be hurt if you were hurt in some way,” she said, trying to articulate something that she did not quite understand. I waited for her to think it through, and she dropped her eyes, staring instead at a photograph of Louis and myself on the corner of the desk.“He knows you love it here, living as you do. If you had to leave, he would see that as hurtful to you.”

“Why would I leave here?”

“If the police were involved…” She faltered. I saw it, or I thought I did. 

“Never mind, _chérie._ ” I said. “It’s less complicated than you might think. She won’t be found and it will be a mystery, one of many in this city. Tell me, are you distressed by her demise?”

“A little bit,” she admitted, shifting her eyes to mine. Her voice was less tentative. I nodded.

“And the others in your office?”

“It’s the way I told you. Gerry might suspect something. He heard the gossip.”

I was not worried about Gerry or the police. I was not even worried about the Talamasca. All of these things were irritants, small complications in a larger picture that I had yet to discern.

I wanted Louis.

 

**TBC**


	8. A Time You Never Can Or Shall Erase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which assumptions are shattered, and the past overshadows the present.

**Chapter Eight**

**Louis**

I hadn’t planned on leaving the house at all, at least not upon awakening, spooned as I was against Lestat’s back. He drifted from the death sleep into a somnolent doze, content in my embrace. When I woke I could not help but to move my hands over his skin, could not resist the urge to trace his ribs and circle his belly. His chest rose and fell evenly and through his back I felt the thump of his heart, slow and steady. The things that had been preying upon my mind receded, pushed away by his warmth and his scent and the sweet allure of his flesh against mine.

Such rhythmic movement was not the sort of thing that induced him to remain asleep for very long and he was soon undulating and arching back to me. The soft sounds he made in his throat inflamed me and it was not long before I was ensconced in the tight, velvet heat of his body. His soft sighs became urgent moans, mingled with the sounds that he, in turn, wrung from me. He loves to be taken slowly, loves it when I fuck him deeply, taking my time with him, urging him to carry us both to repeated, shuddering release.

It was well past midnight when Lestat rolled to a sitting position and announced that he wished to go out and would I care to accompany him? Still sated, I had declined and he had taken that with ebullient good grace. Thinking about it now, sitting on a bench in Jackson Square with the rain soaking me, I realized that he had fully expected me to be there when he returned. For that matter, I had fully expected to be there when he returned. I had moved to his vacated spot on the bed, pulling the sheets over my shoulders and burrowing into his pillow with every intention of napping until his return. I did fall asleep.

I dreamed, old images that have come back to tear and pull at the frayed edges of my memory. Lestat describes the memory of vampires as eidetic. His memory is clear and unbroken except for the times he slept in the earth and for one short period of his waking vampiric life.

This is not the case with me; my memory tends toward vague unless it has to do with Lestat and that is possibly because there are not many other things I wish to remember. When I dream, however, everything is vivid, clearer than it ever was when I was alive and mortal. Colors are sharper, sounds are louder. Emotions are so strong as to be appalling at times because for so long I have had such strength of feeling only for Lestat.

> :::I came in through the front door that day, peeling off my jacket in heated irritation. I wanted something cool to drink, for my throat was parched and I could feel grit in my teeth. The ride back from Quatre Vents had been hellish under the glaring midday sun and I wondered at my own foolishness, riding forth at that time of day.
> 
> “Fetch some water for Michi Louis,” Stefan said sternly to Charlotte, my mother’s maid. She glared at him but went to do as he directed. From within my mother’s salon there came the sound of her raised voice. Charlotte had been at the door, then, I thought. Listening. Always listening, that one. From the salon I heard my mother again, a hectoring, petulant tone that made me wince. There was another voice, this one soft, yet firm. It was Yvette; I could not make out the words Yvette said, for she had always been soft-spoken. There was no mistaking my mother’s answer.
> 
> “Liar!” She cried viciously.
> 
> Even as I moved quickly to the door I hear the sharp crack of a hand against flesh and when I flung the doors open, the two women were standing face to face. Yvette’s cheek bore an angry mark and her eyes were wide and shocked.
> 
> “You tell me. You tell me, girl.”
> 
> My mother was a handsome woman, yet at this moment her face was ugly with spiteful anger. She raised her hand to strike Yvette again and I snatched at her wrist, yanking her back roughly so that she stumbled and nearly fell to the floor. I let go of her wrist and took her by her upper arms shaking her once to stop her from her outraged sputtering.
> 
> “You will control yourself, Madame.” I said coldly. “How dare you raise a hand to her.”
> 
> “You! You can speak to me of control? Filthy drunkard! Let go of me!” She struggled violently and I shook her again.
> 
> Yvette spoke up. “Oh, non, Louis, you must not!”
> 
> “What did she say to you?” I said, ignoring my mother’s squirming.
> 
> “Please, Louis.” Yvette said quietly. I relented and released my mother. She stepped back from me, her breast heaving with her rage.
> 
> And then, in the way of dreams, things shifted and changed and I heard my father’s voice, so long gone from the world, gasping harshly as he lay dying. _“Je suis désolé de te quitter, mon fils bien-aimé."_
> 
> In his weakness the words came out slowly, wrung with pain. I struggled to break free of the dream, but I was held fast. I could feel his hands in mine, shrunken and frail, with no more than a hint of their former fine beauty. Febrile heat radiated from him and his blue eyes were troubled but clear. They looked the same as they always had.
> 
> _“Vois à ce que la petite soit protégée."_
> 
> I could only nod, afraid that if I spoke I would begin to weep.
> 
> _“Louis.”_
> 
> _“Oui, papa.”_ I said raggedly.
> 
> _“Prends soin de toi."_
> 
> I nodded.:::

And then, at last, I woke up, trembling, with my father’s words, the very tone of his voice,still echoing in my head.

_“See to the little one.”_

I rose from the bed and dressed myself with the vague idea that I could somehow walk away from the insistent pain that these unearthed memories had brought on. I let myself out of the house and wandered, walking slowly. I had not gone far when I heard my name being called. Someone…a woman…plucked at my sleeve and then grasped my arm firmly.

“Louis! Out on the town alone, hmmm?”

I blinked, looking at the woman and restraining myself from flinching back at the eye-watering combination of scents that assaulted me like a blow. I was supposed to know her, I thought vaguely.

“It’s Tracy!” Her lips formed a practiced, pouty bow, obviously realizing I did not quite recognize her. With the name and the fact that I had finally taken a good look at her, I identified her in my mind.

“Are you drunk, or something?” She asked peering at me.

“Something.” I agreed. She smiled slyly and I got a clear thought from her. :::Well, at least Lioncourt’s not here and who knows what he’ll say?:::

She hooked her arm through mine and pulled me along in the direction that I had been walking in. “You know, you’re the last person I thought I’d run into tonight!” She smelled of cigarettes and strong perfume and heavy, female pheromones. The first two odors were merely unpleasant but the third, quite amazingly, spiked a sudden and fierce thirst in me. I glanced down at her pretty, hard face speculatively, mulling over the thought I’d gotten from her. I shifted from wanting to extricate myself from her to stalking her.

 

**Brian**

Perry came through her little interrogation intact, even managing to collect her wits when Lestat finally shifted his attention from her. She was watching me for cues but I was busy trying to anticipate what he might do next. He stepped out onto the balcony and stood with his hands on the rail, body leaning forward slightly, oblivious to the steady rain.

“Is he going to just stand out there in the rain waiting for Louis?” Perry whispered. I blinked and looked at her.

“No. He’s trying to hear. If Louis isn’t too far away, he’ll know it.”

“What about…” She gestured to the fan of papers from the Talamasca file. I shrugged.

“He’ll deal with it or not. Like I said, there’s a lot of other stuff going on.”

Lestat turned suddenly and went through the room without a word. A few moments later we heard the front door close and Perry let out a pent-up breath.

“You okay?”

She gave me a brusque little nod, pushing the question aside.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what else is going on.” Perry said. She was looking around the office with frank curiosity.

“No, I don’t think so.” I said.

“You told me a few things when I got here.” She stood up and went to the desk, picking up the photograph she’d been staring at.

“You’re already involved with that.”

“So it’s a ‘need to know’ thing?” Her tone was sarcastic, but I could see she was putting up a pretty fair fight to tamp down on the fear that had sprung up on her.

“That’s as good a way to put it as any.” I said. I didn’t like to sound condescending but the situation is what it is. What trust they had in me had been hard-won as it was and I was never sure what was negligible and what was not to either one of them. The little I’d told her on the stairs had only been what she was coming to realize for herself anyway. She suddenly changed tack.

“Maybe it wasn’t Louis,” she mused, setting down the photograph.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. This was an uncomfortable conversation for me because I was not at all in the habit of talking openly about Lestat or Louis so openly; in a way it was a relief, but the discipline of years being breached caused me a bit of anxiety as well.

“No, I mean it” Perry persisted. “What about those other two The young woman and that boy, uh…that boy vampire? Lestat spoke to me about them just the other night. Louis told him that I’d seen them just before you got back from Florida.” She’d stumbled over the word ‘vampire’, but I gave her points for using it at all. It’s one of those things that make you feel like you might just be going mad when you say it out loud. Even Lestat’s go-to word is ‘immortal’. I hadn’t known that she’d spoken to either one of them and considered pointing that out to her. I didn’t, though.

“You’ll drive yourself crazy trying to rationalize any of it.” I told her. “You know the basic facts already. It seems unlikely that Tracy met up with _them_ after she was seen with Louis. Don’t kid yourself into thinking he’s not dangerous just because he’s unfailingly pleasant to you. He is. He’s lethal. Don’t forget it.”

Perry’s shoulders sagged a little. “Do you think Lestat will find him?”

“If he’s near and if he wants to be found, yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t he want to be found? Or is that another thing you won’t talk about?” She tried to look angry but she only looked tired and a little scared.

“It was just an observation.” I said gently.

“I better go,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow after work.”

I walked with her down the stairs and before she opened the front door, I gave her on of the several cell phones by the front door.

“Use this.” I said. She stared at me as though I’d grown another head.

“I have a phone, Brian.”

“I know. But you don’t use it to call _me_ very often, do you? This is one they use to keep in touch with me. If the records are ever checked, it would look normal. Just wait until after sunset.”

“Like _that_ doesn’t look funny.” Perry tucked the phone into her purse. “What if I need to let you know something in a hurry?”

“A call from work wouldn’t look strange. I talk to you at work pretty often.”

She nodded and looked into my eyes. “I hope I can pull this off.”

“Nothing to pull off, Perry. You didn’t do anything and you don’t really know anything for sure. Just stay calm. If you managed that here, you can deal with the rest of it. Use the phone if you need to.”

Perry nodded and opened the door. She stood for a moment, looking down the rainy street. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow sometime.” She stepped out and hurried to where her car was parked about a half block down. She didn’t look back.

 

**Lestat**

I knew Louis was near. I can sense him when he is close enough, even without benefit of mind touch. His scent was elusive, but somehow there for me, dancing in the dense, rainy air. It was not his scent that alerted me, though, at least not from the balcony outside the office. It was not his scent but the sound of his heart that told me he was close. Waiting for me? I didn’t know but I decided I would go to him regardless.

I passed through the office without speaking to Brian or to Persephone. Brian had things in hand for the time being and should anything need to be brought to my attention he would do it. The only thing that he’d been worried about was the Talamasca file he’d found and when I dismissed it, that had been good enough for him. One of the things I like about Brian is that he knows when to question things and when to leave them be. I finished dressing and moments later I was two blocks down Royal Street, glad of the rain because there was less traffic than normal for the hour.

When I reached the Square saw him at last; my Louis, a lone figure on one of the benches in front of the Cabildo. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers loosely entwined. His black hair hung lank and dripping. He seemed unaware of my presence and that filled me with unease. Louis always knows when I am near him. I started toward him and a moment later his spine straightened and he turned his head to find me. His eyes were vague for a long moment, clearing only when the wind shifted and he caught my scent. He stood and as I approached he took an awkward step toward me and I drew him into my arms.

“I missed you, angel.” I said into his hair. He pressed his face into my neck and his arms came up to hold me.

“I stayed too long and the sun caught me out.” He stepped back from me, gripping my upper arms with bruising strength. His aspect was strangely defiant. “No one will find her.”

“Why would they?” I said lightly. “They never do if that’s the way we want it.”

He nodded then, as though satisfied with what I had said and relaxed his grip somewhat. He looked past me at the cathedral and I turned to follow his gaze. No one was loitering outside in the steady rain, but from within came the sounds of the faithful, hearing evening Mass. First Friday, I thought. I turned back to Louis and he dragged his gaze from the cathedral doors to my face.

“I saw her there. Weeks ago, now. Perhaps longer,” he said in a low voice. “I am not sure.”

I fought the urge to break in and ask him questions. I fought it because that vagueness was there, the look that used to so infuriate me in the past. Back in the long ago days when we would stand in this very Square in front of a different, older version of St. Louis’s and he would seamlessly balk my every attempt to goad him to feed or to hunt with me or any number of things that he did not wish to be forced to do.

“She was wearing gloves, Lestat. Little white gloves. In this day and this age, little white gloves.” He went on. I glanced toward the cathedral again. “She isn’t in there now.”

Not Tracy, then, I thought. Who, then? He let go of my arms and slid his hands around my back. “I smell your impatience, _mon couer_.” He whispered, his mouth very close to mine.

“Let me take you home, Louis. We’ll take a hot bath. You can tell me or not, but I would get you out of the rain.” I kissed him, then and he melted against me with a soft sigh.

“Out of the rain,” he agreed.

 

**Brian**

Several days passed. There had been no inquiry regarding Louis and his whereabouts the night Tracy Harvey had last been seen. Wendy and Jasmine had remained silent for whatever reason and that was all that mattered. Lestat had come home with Louis about an hour after Perry left and I hadn’t seen much of them in the several days since then, beyond a brusque order from Lestat that they remain undisturbed. Not that much of a problem, usually because most of their business contacts speak to me on a regular basis anyway. Of course, things never really run altogether smoothly when dealing with this particular household.

I’d had calls from Rimbaud, worried about the ‘missing’ articles. I assured him no action was forthcoming on their part because Lestat had dropped his lawsuit and I knew by this time it was the furthest thing from his mind. He was preoccupied with Louis. I’d been working in the office most of the day and late in the afternoon I went to the closet in the first floor hallway to get another box of checks. I had them stored in neat rows on the top shelf. They have quite a few accounts and it’s helpful if Lestat does not randomly write checks on some of them without explanation or any idea at all of what money is kept where. It’s useless to mention it to him because he invariably points out that it’s my job to keep track of such things. One of my tricks is to hide the checks to all the accounts except for one; that account is kept with a goodly sum of money in it for those times when he feels particularly extravagant and for whatever reason feels the need to write an actual check out. The others are laid out for him to sign and be sent to wherever they need to go. It’s not foolproof, but it works out okay.

This is the sort of prattle that my mind was idling on when I reached up for one of the small black and red boxes. In doing so I dislodged something sitting at the edge of the shelf and caught it as it fell. It was a small oval painting, one of those commonly referred to as a miniature. My first impulse was put it back where I found it, but my curiosity got the better of me in light of the ‘missing’ items that Victor Rimbaud had described. The light in the hallway was dim and so I grabbed the checks that I wanted and took the little painting back to the office so I could look at it under the Tensor lamp on Lestat’s desk.

I examined the painting beneath the bright little lamp.. The frame was ivory, yellowed slightly with age and carved with delicate roses and ivy all the way around. The subject was a brown skinned young woman with black, upswept hair and lovely, tilted eyes. Her long, slender neck was set to perfection by a red-jeweled pendant and the scooped neck of the gown she wore. There was a magnifying glass in the drawer and I took it out to look at it more closely. My gaze was drawn again and again to the woman’s eyes; whiskey backlit with fire. The skill of the artist was profound for even under the very close scrutiny of the glass the lace that decorated the neckline of her gown was rendered in perfect, minute detail, the color of her skin radiated smooth warmth. I knew who she was even before I turned the picture over and read the legend on the back.

_**Yvette Madeleine de Pointe du Lac  
1789** _

Louis’s Yvette.

Marveling, I turned the little portrait back over and looked at her again. This woman had known Louis throughout his mortal life. She had grown up with him and she had, by his own account, loved him and known him as few others had. Gazing at her, I thought about the long march of time, of the people Louis had known and cared about parted from him by the path he had chosen. _‘He gets lost sometimes.’_ Lestat said. Lost in that past?

“Do you find it strange that Louis might occasionally miss those people that he held dear?”

I turned around and saw that the room beyond the pool of light from the desk lamp was filled with shadow. Lestat seemed to glimmer from the doorway, a negligent angel in a robe of dark silk.

“No.” I said. My voice sounded distant in my own ears, something heard from very far off.

“You sound as though there is some disclaimer to your answer.” He wandered past me to the leather sofa in the furthest corner of the office.

I shrugged, looking own again at the picture on the desk. “It feels like more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Louis has told me often enough that he left his life willingly to be with you.”

“The one does not preclude the other,” he pointed out.

“You’re asking me because you’re wondering too.”

His gaze went quite cool for a moment but then he relaxed against the back of the sofa, a small smile on his lips. “I forget sometimes, _cher_ , how shrewd you are.” He drew one bare leg up beneath him. “There seems to be more afoot than Louis’ occasional tender thoughts about those he misses.”

“Where is he?”

“Out.” Lestat said briefly. He rose and came to the desk to look over my shoulder at the miniature. I had the overpowering urge to ask him questions, to find out about her. What had he thought of her? The others that had been part of Louis’ mortal life? I had no chance to say anything, though, because he spoke first.

“Where did you find it?” He asked, running his finger along the edge of the frame.

“In the hall closet downstairs. I was looking for something else and it was just sitting there on the top shelf.”

“Ah. The one where you hide the checks.” He gave me a self-satisfied grin. “Were the other missing items in there as well?”

I gaped at him. “I didn’t look, really. This almost fell to the floor. I caught it and then I came up here to look at it in better light.”

I followed him down the stairs and he opened the closet door. There were coats and jackets hanging inside and he pushed them aside. At the back, resting on a jumbled pile of boots and shoes sat a flat parcel. This one was larger, matching the dimensions that Rimbaud had given. Lestat lifted it out and carefully undid the wrapping. Stepping back into the dimly lit hallway, he held it out at arm’s length. I peered at it over his shoulder and saw that it was a portrait of a young girl, no more than five years old. Lestat muttered something; his voice was so low I couldn’t make out what he’d said. He pushed the wrappings on the floor aside with his foot and carried it quickly upstairs.

By the time I got to the office he’d turned all the lights on and it blazed like full noon. He was seated in the office chair with the painting balanced on his thighs. Standing behind him, I could see the painting quite well in the brilliant light. She was beautiful, with perfect, rose-tinged dusky complexion and wide, solemn eyes. Her hair was lush and thick for so young a child. It hung over her shoulders like black watered silk. I shifted my glance to Lestat’s profile. His gaze was intent, the expression on his face completely unreadable.  
“That file you found at the Harvey woman’s house. Bring it to me, please.”

I stepped back and across to the oak filing cabinets. I’d put it at the back of the top drawer in case he might want to see it. He had not really read it over when he looked at it the night I bought it back and he took it from me with a nod, scanning through the pages more rapidly than any human ever could. When he finished he hurled the folder viciously across the room, scattering the white pages in an arc across the floor. I stood quite still, waiting for the first cresting wave of his very palpable anger to recede. After a moment he stood and placed the painting carefully on the desk. He turned to look at me.

“I should have read that all the way through when you gave it to me last week.” He said, collecting himself. “Call Rimbaud and tell him I wish to see him in his Rue de Chartres office within the hour. I want to see how far they have insinuated themselves into our affairs this time.”

 

**Lestat**

_“I saw her there. Weeks ago, now. Perhaps longer. She was wearing gloves, Lestat. Little white gloves. In this day and age, little white gloves.”_

I had not known who Louis had been talking about that night when I found him outside the Cathedral. I managed to restrain myself from badgering him about it and with all the other things that had happened since then, I had pushed it to the back of my mind. Reading the file threw a different light on the remark. Among the printed notes that Tracy Harvey had prepared for her contact at the Talamasca, a short paragraph caught my eye.

_“I have made many acquaintances and contacts during the course of normal business and I have reason to believe that there is a Pointe du Lac connection with Mrs. Patrice Fournier. Mrs. Fournier’s maiden name is Doucèt. I did not make the connection immediately, as the name is a common one in the area. I had occasion to meet the Fournier’s young daughter, Julia and noticed a familial resemblance to Monsieur Pointe du Lac that is quite pronounced.. A quick search of public and church records convinces me that Mrs. Fournier is a descendent of Monsieur Pointe du Lac on her maternal side.”_

Surely those people know that there are remnants of Louis’ family here and there? Why would they need Tracy’s assistance in something that, as she herself stated, was a matter of public record? Not that she would be providing them with information any longer, superfluous or not, I thought with vicious good humor. Brian came up behind me as I as letting myself out of the front door. He had changed into fresh clothing and had his leather bag over one shoulder.

“Did you contact him?”

“He’ll be there.” Brian said, as though there had been no question about it.

“And where are you going?”

“I’m coming with you,” he answered, checking to see that the door was locked as we stepped out onto the banquette.

“Not necessary.”

“Might be.”

I shrugged and he fell into stride beside me.

 

**Narration**

Some time had passed since Tracy’s disappearance. Glaise Gibeault filed a missing persons report and that had been followed up with dutiful questions from the police. Neither Wendy nor Jasmine had mentioned Wendy’s seeing Louis with her and Perry was sure they’d been warned by Gibeault to keep that little fact to themselves. After the initial flurry of speculation the office settled own and Perry’ days were much as they had always been, but her nights were restless. She’d taken to biting her nails again and obsessively cleaning her flat and then re-arranging it. Several times, in fact.

Perry couldn’t face it again and she gave in at last to her urge to go to the Quarter and just walk. Nothing strange in that. She did it all the time--only not since she’d been to the flat on Royal Street and seen a nearly naked vampire in a towering rage, not since she'd heard that the infallibly charming Louis was much more lethal than she had ever dreamed, among many other interesting things. She shivered at the memory and wondered if it was fear that made her shiver or some kind of weird lust-driven fascination with the whole situation.  
She stepped off the streetcar at Canal and decided to walk along Bourbon just because it was always crowded there on Friday nights, there were people to look at and dodge and maybe her mind would slow down just the tiniest bit if she had something else to concentrate on. She made her way to Bourbon and let herself be swept into the flow of foot traffic.

Sleazy old Bourbon Street, loud with the music that blared from the open doorways of the bars and the souvenir shops. There was a frenetic, somewhat forced feel to the excitement, as though the tourists that wandered up and down the street thought that there was some enforceable law that said you must Party Down and Like It. Still, it did the trick. Perry felt her spirits lift a little at the energy, and the smells, both the good and bad, were comforting. By the time she reached St. Ann’s she felt her appetite awaken and decided to head to Angeli for something to eat.

It was when she crossed Royal that she saw him up ahead, walking in the same direction. She knew it was Louis, even though the side of the street he was on was shadowy. She recognized his walk, his long legs, the black hair that lifted in the coolish breeze blowing up from the river. Her heart picked up speed. Was this why she’d come, really? Fucking stupid question. Of course it was. On Decatur she saw him pass the iron gate posts into little Latrobe Park an after a moment of hesitation she went in, thinking he was just passing through it. He wasn’t.

Perry stopped short and breath caught in her throat when she saw him seated on the bench across from the gate she’d just passed through. Part of him was obscured by the center pedestal and she found herself moving gingerly around it so that she could see him. She caught his gaze and his eyes followed her movements in a detached, utterly inhuman way. He was as still as the statue in front of him but the remote glitter of his eyes gave away the fact that he was no inanimate sculpture.

“Louis?” Her voice came out a bit ragged but not nearly as terrified as she felt. She made herself step toward him, made herself breathe slowly and evenly as she tried to step on her fear. She remembered what Brian had said to her when Lestat had been raging away in the rooms above their heads and it made sense to remain calm, made sense to not show fear, because if you did you might be attacked, you might get hurt. “It’s Persephone, Louis.” Calmer this time.

“Persephone.” His voice was completely devoid of inflection and it made her flinch. His eyes focused though and he seemed to actually see her at last. “Why are you here?”

No good answer to that other than the simple truth. “I saw you walking ahead of me and I followed you here.”

“Why?”

“I…I wanted to see how you were.”

“How I am?” He seemed honestly confused at first and then she saw his face clear, saw his features relax into a semblance of human warmth. “Will you sit?”

Perry moved forward on numb legs and sat down beside him. He nodded at her and then his gaze shifted back to the sliver of sidewalk that was not blocked by the central pedestal and statue. He didn’t say anything for a long time and she relaxed by degrees, darting little glances at his entrancing profile and wondering if she should wait or leave or what.

“Some would say it is unhealthy to form attachments to such as we. You are frightened.” He said at length. “You should be. You see now that I am not all that you believed me to be. I give no apology; I can only warn you that such attachments are not without risk.” He gazed at her, leaning forward so that his breath stirred her hair. “Even if I vowed no harm to you, would you really trust the word of someone who has stolen as many lives as I have?” Louis covered her hand with his and she looked at it, the impossible smooth whiteness and the wrenching beauty. “Do you wonder about us? About me? Are you like Brian? No one is safe, _chérie_ , not altogether… but loyalty affords some protection.”

He was almost vehement and though his words held some threat, Perry was no longer fearful. His silence and the cold glitter of his stare had been far more terrifying to her. She had already figured out a lot of what he was saying over the past week or so and so she said the one thing she thought might possibly turn his attention from admonishments she did not need. “Lestat is concerned for you.”

“I know he is. I am also concerned for him, for he is most volatile and impatient.”

Perry sighed heavily. “And there is a lot more going on,” she said. “I know it because some of it brushed up against me last week.”

“Ah. The toothsome Ms. Harvey.” Louis said with no trace of humor. “You see, then, what is meant by loyalty, though perhaps I did let my anger get the better of me. Lestat spoke to me about what you did on our behalf. I am grateful for your efforts, though you should not have put yourself at risk.”

“I can’t believe she was working with…them.” Perry murmured.

“They have their ways, _chérie_ , and she had hers. They have methods she underestimated.”

”I don’t understand, though. I didn’t read all of it, but from what I saw there was nothing there that they or anyone else could not have found out quite easily. It makes no sense that they would go to her and that she would just tell them what they wanted to know and throw all ethics to the wind.”

“There was one thing.” Louis said distantly.

 **Next: Chapter** Nine


	9. These Fragile Times Should Never Slip Us By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the past continues to overlap the present, explanations are made clearer and the plot thickens.

****

~Chapter Nine~

****

Lestat

Victor Rimbaud greeted us cordially, his manner smooth and urbane as befitted a man of his standing. I didn’t buy any of it. I smelled his anxiety. Not fear, not yet, anyway, but he was nervous, worried no doubt that I had come to see what progress had been made on tracking the missing items. The smell of his anxiety made me twitchy. That scent doesn’t always affect me so. Sometimes it makes me thirst for blood. Occasionally it elicits some form of compassion. In this case it made me edgy and peevish. I waved off his cordiality impatiently even as Brian suggested that we all sit down. He was curiously calm, his manner very bland. Rimbaud opened his mouth to speak, no doubt to spill forth a torrent of obfuscating gibberish but Brian cut him off smoothly.

“Mr. Rimbaud, please. Monsieur Lioncourt has not come regarding the matter of the missing items…I believe I have told you several times that there will be no legal pursuance of the matter.” He turned to me. “ _Monsieur_?”

He’d gotten good at the game, Brian has. “I wish to know if anyone has approached you regarding Monsieur Pointe du Lac’s art collection.”

“Monsieur, I assure you, no one other than our curator has been allowed in Monsieur Pointe du Lac’s vault, and he only to ascertain that the collection is counted as usual and that the temperature…”

“There has been no accusation of such a thing, Victor. “ Brian said. Rimbaud seemed not to hear him; his eyes were locked to mine. 

“Just answer the question. Has anyone approached you?” 

”There was a request. There are often requests from those rarified collectors who have somehow gotten word of Monsieur’s collection. I directed him to Mr. Callahan as I have always done.”

“Who made the request?”

“Raylene has his card, I believe. Shall I have her call you with the name?”

“Is she here?”

“Why, no.” Rimbaud said, non-plussed.

“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to get it from her desk?” I said in freezing tones.

He cleared his throat and then rose to retrieve the card, his stiff posture indicative of the perceived slight I had given. I gave Brian a sardonic smile for I was amused in spite of my annoyance.“Edward Marchland.” Rimbaud said when he rentered to room. He went back the chair behind his grand desk, and reached across the gleaming acres of mahogany to hand me the card. I stared at it and after a moment, Rimbaud placed the card on the desk within my reach. 

“And did this Edward Marchland say why he wished to view the contents? In what capacity?”

“From an historical vantage, I believe. He mentioned a book and he also mentioned the property that Monsieur Pointe du Lac owns out on River Road.”

“Tell me, Victor, are you often approached in this manner?”

“Occasionally. I assure you, Monsieur, that such requests are always directed back to Mr. Callahan.”

I glanced at Brian and he nodded. Rimbaud had sent word of such requests with contact information several times and Brian received them from other sources as well, some legitimate and others that appeared less so. All were routinely sent letters of polite rebuff. He was always careful to show these things to use in case some name should be of interest to me or to Louis. “I have not heard from Mr. Marchland.” Brian said dutifully.

“There. You see?” Rimbaud said, leaning back in his chair. “He’s probably given up.”

I narrowed my eyes at him and Rimbaud noticed it immediately. He sat up straight.

“He has not given up.” I retorted. “You should at least understand that. Do you think there is another reason I would have come here asking these questions?”

Brian stood up hastily, anxious to keep things from escalating to a point that might be inconvenient. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Rimbaud.” 

I rose slowly, taking the card from Rimbaud’s desk. “If I were in your shoes, Victor, I would tread very lightly. If you think that moving our business to another bank would be a bad dream, I assure you there are things that might occur that would surpass your worst nightmares.” I tucked the card into my pocket and dropped the menace from my voice, assuming a business-like tone. “Should you hear again from Mr. Marchland, please convey my greetings to him, would you? Bon soir.”

Brian’s relief was palpable as we stepped out onto Rue Chartres and headed toward the Cathedral. “What’s the matter, Brian? Getting squeamish?” I said. I felt somehow thwarted, though I could not put my finger on why I felt that way.

“The bodies are beginning to pile up around here,” he pointed out.

“And you are going to question that? ” I snapped. His eyes widened

“ I’m only trying to…”

“I know what you’re doing.” I said irritably. “Who’s to stop me if I choose to pile up the corpses, yours among them?” He quite sensibly made no answer and I went on, for he had provoked in me an unreasonable wrath. “I’m forgetting, though, aren’t I? That’s what you want from me, isn’t it?” 

His face colored, dull red and he kept his eyes fixed ahead. I could smell anger in him and his thoughts were angry, too, shot through with harsh pain. It dampened my own fury which had nothing to do with him and very little to do with Victor Rimbaud.

“Forget him. He’s still upright.” I said. “That's why you came along, isn't it?”

His temper flared at last. “Why do ask me questions when you already know the answers?” he said defiantly. It settled me a bit. I prefer it when he speaks his mind; docility doesn’t suit him.

 

****

  
****

****

Brian

Lestat knows all about pushing buttons – he’s been doing it for centuries, so it’s not surprising that he’s elevated it to an art form. There’s more than one way to go for the jugular, I guess. I laughed glassily and flinched a little at the sound of it, caroming off the walls of my shadowy living room.

Here’s the thing: he has only rarely turned his anger toward me. When it happens, it’s terrifying, but it never felt like a personal attack. This time it was one of those clean cuts made with a blade so sharp, I didn’t even feel how deeply he’d stabbed until it had already happened. I snapped something back at him and as quick as it had touched down, the storm was gone. When he brushed aside his anger, I knew he was being conciliatory and so my anger fled as well, though I felt stiff and awkward in his presence.

This little wrath-of–god scene really kicked my ass, though. I can remember when I first started working for them, after I moved into this place in the back. Their new-found relationship was deteriorating, falling apart. I knew it, because it was pretty hard to miss the anger between them, the way they stalked around each other like two furious cats, stiff-backed and snarling. Sometimes they erupted into violent struggles, snapping at each other, rolling and biting and knocking each other into walls to the ruination of the plaster and the destruction of the furniture. The verbal battles were somehow worse, showing an evilly petulant side of Lestat that did not anger Louis so much as turn him inward, closeted with a pain that always seemed all too familiar when I would chance to get a glimpse of it on his face. It brought out in him a resigned weariness that was terrible to see.

Worse came after that, much worse, but then came some realization, forged in that pain, maybe, but transcending it as well, and they found their way back to each other. The process took years, a long time for mortals, but for them, it was a relatively fast, though difficult, process. When he opened up to Louis, giving to him what he needed to be whole at last, Lestat had found that it completed him as well. How do I know that? Hell, they’ve told me, that’s how. I’ve seen it in a thousand different ways from savage love-making to the worshipful touch of hand to cheek. And now Louis wandered and Lestat found that he was lost, too. It made him anxious, made him protective and when he found something solid to pin his fears to, it made him angry. 

So. What do I do now? Sit here in the dark, laughing like a lunatic? No time for that. I needed to read the entire folder I’d brought back from Tracy’s house and I needed to find out where Edward Marchland was. 

I needed to anticipate.

 

****

Louis

He was waiting for me in our bed and when I went naked into his arms he drew me close, his right hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on my back. There was eloquence in his touch, caresses that told me of his love, whispered French in my ear to tell me he had longed for my return. He asked no questions, did not press me about where I had been, what was happening, no endless queries about why, why, why . I wondered why I would be thinking of the way he used to be. I raised my head to look into his eyes I remembered the when of where we were.

“You were near me earlier tonight, _mon amour_.” I said at length. 

“Guilty.” He kissed my brow. “In case you might need me.”

“I have always needed you.” His scent held comfort, but there was an undercurrent of tension. 

“You know what I mean,” he chided gently. “Were you looking for the child?”

“No. I know where she is.” I told him. 

He was quiet for a time, his hand still circling, circling.

“Lestat, what is it? You are holding in your anger.”

“I read the file that Brian brought back. All of it.”

He hooked his foot around my calf. 

“File?” 

“Never mind, sweeting. It doesn’t matter, except I know now why this child caught your attention. You knew at once, did you not?”

“Startling resemblance. That signified nothing, however. It was her blood. Of course I knew.” I said rather vehemently. His hand stilled for a moment and then he resumed the soothing motion. 

“You have always known that there were those on your mother’s side were till about.” 

I knew, just as I knew there were those who share Giancarlo’s familial blood. Those in France still, with remnants of my father’s blood. Sometimes I am moved to speak to one or the other, make myself known in some small way. “Her eyes, Lestat. Her eyes were so old.”

“Tell me about her, Louis. Did you see her by chance? Or had you a suspicion? “

“Chance only, if such things are really ever chance.” The anger he’d been nursing just a few moments before bled away, but the anger was replaced by a different apprehension; the tension remained in the corded muscles of his arms and thighs, and his deliberately regulated breathing. Lestat has never been a patient soul and in this instance I knew with perfect clarity that his intention was to ease my own agitation.

“ _Pauvre petit_. “ I murmured. “So patient, you.” 

He snorted self-deprecatingly and I sat up. He followed suit and moved about arranging the pillows and blankets against the headboard. He sat back and I joined him, pulling the sheet up over us.

“It was a while ago, over a month, now. That night, on the banquette I saw something that took me back. A time I rarely think of now, unless it's of you." I felt him press a kiss on the top of my head. “We’d left our bed hours after waking and I could hear you initiating a telephone call, the first of many, impatiently flipping through the myriad television channels and then trying to argue with the automated pay-per-view service. Do you remember?”

“You got dressed….you wanted to go out, in spite of my efforts earlier to have you stay in with me.” He said, chuckling. “You threw a pair of silk drawstrings at me.” 

"I knew you were as naked as the day you were born.”

 _" 'Either put those on or stay off of the balcony, Lestat.' "_ He mimicked my voice, taking my hand.

I’d trailed my hand across his sleek shoulders and he’d looked up at me in that way he has…somehow innocent. _" 'I like the feel of the leather chair on my ass.' " I mimicked back. "And I told you not to open the door au nature. I've read in the Times-Picayune of too many incidences of people found babbling incoherently." I said turning my head to look at him._

Demon. He smiled at me as he had that night and the rest of the conversation came back to me. _" ‘But Louis, you know the tourists are often in a drunken state. I'm sure that's what you're referring to, isn't it?’ "_ I answered him in a mock-thoughtful tone . 

"Louis?” He nudged me and I blinked and then nodding, went on. 

“I walked, as I sometimes do. Thirsting, because we had shared our bodies, but I had wanted to save the bloodplay. I walked and fed and walked yet more. Past tourists- inebriated and not-past shops with signs advertising the New Orleans Department of Tourism's catchphrase 'New Orleans; Come as you are. Leave different' and I remember thinking thought 'Or never leave.' And it is true, is it not my love? You never will be the same. Some of us have skewed that statement for all eternity.”

“I know that I have never been the same since I first set foot in this city,” he said, releasing my hand. I leaned forward and he slid his arm around my shoulders. “Please continue, Louis." 

“The last of those clever signs was at a tourist information shop on St. Ann. It was 9:30 at night, hotter than hell, the smell from the mules and the beer and the piss and human sweat was quite high, nearly suffocating and, as usual, I smelled food that I've never tasted. Like pizza. Remember when we were first reunited and you asked me what pizza was?” 

“I remember." Lestat said. "We stood in the dark outside a California Pizza Kitchen, after fucking for hours in the hills around the Sonoma compound. I had my hands in the front pockets of your jeans and my head on your shoulder, marveling that we were there, together again after so long. I asked what it was I smelled and you told me it was called pizza. I’d smelled it before in the weeks since I’d been awake. My little band of mortals ate it all the time.” 

“You turned to me and said ‘What is it like, what can eating it be like?’ I was overwhelmed that night, your smell in my head and your arms around me. All of it after so long alone. When you asked me that I felt like weeping at your child-like curiosity. But I digress. As I came to the end of St. Ann where it crosses Chartres and the big cathedral was there, of course. I hadn't been inside of St. Louis' since we were kicked out for salacious behavior years before by a frightened priest.” 

Lestat laughed delightedly. “I’ve been inside St. Louis’ cathedral, Father. I have been inside him many times indeed.” 

I smiled at him and he nodded at me to go on. “I noticed a small child. A girl, _une petite fille_. Not like our Claudia. She was dark, hair blacker than coal, blacker than mine. Long, like silk, like a carousel horse's mane, festooned with ribbons. She was with adults, her parents, I assumed, as the woman looked vaguely like her. Moneyed, social, gleaming. First Friday, I think it may have been. I sat on one of the benches across from the cathedral watching them as they spoke with other adults who had come from within.” 

The night came back to me with sharp clarity. I’d ignored the street psychics and those artists that were still there. I was dressed normally, whatever that means in this town and in this time but the real psychics that work this square know there is something about me, about my stillness. Perhaps they even know me for what I am. The fakers and the charlatans take their cues from them. I initiated some movement so that I would not be so disconcerting, moving my leg back and forth, the way I have seen Lestat do, while he is at the computer or when he sits on the dressing chair in the bathroom, watching me bathe. 

Lestat tightened his arm briefly and once again I nodded, this time feeling somewhat dazed, much as I had that night. "The child was spectacular, precious the way children ocan be. Dusky skin, with a smoothness rival yours, _mon ange_. She was about seven or eight, wearing lacey anklet socks and shiny, black slipper-like shoes with small straps across the tops of her feet. Her calves are smaller round than my forearm, which I'd taken to stroking mindlessly. Some type of frilly smock, dress, whatever, ending above her knee, her little kneecaps moving minutely as she shifted her weight. Dimples in the backs of her knees like the ones on her elbows, the tiniest puckering, the shadow of a crease.  
And the gloves. Little gloves. It seemed odd for these times and especially in this humid climate." 

My mind drifted again. It bothers me no longer, this weather. I barely notice most things. It is a joke between you and Brian. I remember him asking me once, in that friendly way he has, 'Louis, how long has this light bulb been out?' as he stood atop a ladder to change it in the foyer hallway.’ I had answered honestly, if distractedly, engrossed as I was in Lestat’s scent, his presence. 'A week? A month? I hadn't noticed' And Lestat, my golden love, his laughter had all but shattered the parlor windows when he had come to lean over the stair railing, the fierce look of love in his eyes as he gazed at me more illuminating than any bit of glass and metal and filament of light. How he loves the light. It amuses him, the play of it on crystal, on wood, in mirrors. In the sweat on my upper lip when we are making love. 

Electricity? My mind was occupied with other things. Precious few. All else is done and then forgotten. Lestat says I forgot nothing, and perhaps it is true. Perhaps there are things that I wish I could forget. Things done when I was mortal, things done when I was not. But the gloves, they looked so out of place; but then, this family had just come from church. And where else are we taught to hide things? Things more precious than one's hands? Where else are we taught so well to hide things no matter what the hiding costs one's self as well as others? And where else are we schooled by rote that some things do not exist although we know very well they do? And do we ever really know what it costs us? 

I roused myself from these thoughts with difficulty, though Lestat had made no movement or sound. I spoke as though to myself. 

”She pulled one off and began biting at her savaged fingertips. The ongoing damage showed in the ripped and torn nail beds. The smell of her blood hit me and I smelt a piercing note in its scent. Her mother looked down and said sharply, "Julia! What are you doing? You know you need to keep your gloves on." Her face was a disgusted _moué_ , a mask of distaste when she saw the girl's bloody fingertips, her smeared lips. 

One of the child's crimson-tipped hands went to her throat, under her jaw. And if the blood scent didn't catch my evasive attention, what I saw there did. A small mark, a birthmark, I was barely able to see it from my vantage point. Tinier thana dime. A crimson trail smeared it and I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking that it couldn’t be, that she couldn’t be. I stood up, staring, unable to look away from her and then I knew I had to leave. I searched her mind for her name as I stood to walk away... Julia what? I probed. Julia Fournier. My movement caught her eye and she looked to me. Her eyes were old. Older than they should have been. 

I found myself at our banking establishment, the small one on Chartres. I broke in, which I rarely do. Digging through one of my vaults of old images, visions I hadn't seen in years, decades, even longer. Fournier? Why, she was no more 'Fournier' than I am.” I laughed nervously, a little madly. Lestat did not speak, but he squeezed my shoulder again, pulling me closer and I laid my head on his shoulder. 

”I found it then, the thing that I have been looking for, knowingly or not. The portrait of a child I had commissioned, centuries ago. Quite well done. I had had it commissioned without her mother knowing it, though her mother knew very little by then. Later, my mother called it a perversion, someone else I had fixated upon. A drunken debauchery to have it made much less kept about at all. All said that. All but my father and Giancarlo. Later, after Papa died, I had driven Gianni away. Refused to see him for fear that what was left of my twisted, desiccated heart would blow away in the wind at the sight of him. I could find my journals, the journal pages written by a 'soulless doll' as one of my suitors had called me, one very near the end of my mortal life. I could find them, if I hadn't burned them. Not that I need them, Lestat, because these memories are somehow so close to the surface of my thoughts these days. I took the painting and I took the miniature of Yvette. The little box, too. I brought them home and put them…I put them somewhere.” 

“I saw the painting, Louis. Brian found the miniature in the closet downstairs and I went to look.' 

“Juliette. You remember her, do you not?” I said softly. “And if you had but seen this child, Lestat--if you had seen her, you would have known. I took the painting and the letters because I would not have the Talamasca disturbing her…recruiting her at some later time. That vile woman…” 

“I know the name of the investigator that solicited Tracy Harvey’s help.” Lestat said, and the steel was in his voice again. 

I felt so tired and there was the ghost of pain in my head, echoes of a time when I would be felled from the pain of violent headaches.“I want to sleep.” I muttered. He moved us down and rolled me to my side, spooning his body against mine and enclosing me with his arms and legs. 

****

Narration

John Chaisson watched Brian swim the length of the pool. The strong, even strokes made the muscles on the backs of Brian’s arms lengthen in a way that made him feel weak and when Brian, naked skin gleaming, boosted himself clear of the pool with a smooth flex of muscles, John felt a wishful tightening in his groin.

They’d spent the better part of the early afternoon engaged in some pleasantly strenuous fucking and John currently floated, stomach down, on a comfortable air mattress gently bumping the side of the pool in the ripples. Resting his chin on his crossed hands, he watched Brian towel himself off and then sprawl on one of the lounge chairs in the shade.

Brian cast an eye his way and smiled. “Want a beer or something?”

“Nah. Have to leave for work soon. I should be out of here already. I’m just waiting.”

“You want to go again? You just said you have to work.” Brian said, settling back and closing his eyes.

John snorted. "No. I’m waiting for you to tell me why you lured me to your den of sin. There’s always a catch.”

Brian grinned, eyes still closed. “When did you make Detective?”

“Bitch.”

“Busted.” Brian said comfortably. “I was going to call you. Bumping into you was purely coincidence.”

“Uh huh. What do you need this time?”

“Background check, if you can do it.”

“I can do it.” John rolled off the air mattress and swam across the pool to where Brian sat. “What’s the name?”

“Edward Marchland.”

“What do you need?”

“Whatever you can get for me. Address would be good. What kind of car he has. I’m betting he doesn’t have a record, but if he does, I'd like a look at that, too.”

“I don’t suppose it’ll do any good to ask why?”

Brian opened an eye. “It’s to do with them.” He said laconically.

“Right.”

'Them' John thought with a shiver. He glanced involuntarily at their house, the upper floor dreaming in the afternoon sun. “When do you need it?”

“Sooner is always better, John.”

 

****

Brian

  


The little scene with Lestat a few nights earlier had shaken me up a little. Well, a lot actually, but it had already begun to seem distant. I had plenty to occupy my mind, that was certain. I’d been doing some digging on Edward Marchland and come up with a few things, including an address and a phone number. He’d come here from Atlanta and if the information was good, he was living across the Lake in Tammany Parish. I wasn’t sure when he’d gotten there, but it probably didn’t matter much.

I’d read through the items in Tracy’s folder several times already. The item regarding the child Julia Fournier had taken on shades of import since I’d heard Louis refer several times to a child he had seen. Finding out that he had subsequently burgled his own vaults for a portrait of another child, Juliette de Pointe du Lac, and one of his beloved Yvette had raised a number of questions in my mind. Was Yvette Juliette’s mother? You didn’t need to be a genius to understand from Tracy’s missive on the subject that Julia was very likely a descendant, though it said in the memorandum that she was descended from Louis’ mother’s side. It was all very convoluted.

As for Edward Marchland, I’d only found one letter from him in the entire file, though I had little doubt that there had been more. I would have to ask Perry if she would be able to check around the office for any sign of correspondence from him. The letter, dated not too long ago, had been one in which he had enquired whether or not I should be approached as a potential source of information; Tracy’s response had been an emphatic negative. The letter had never reached him: it was in the folder with the envelope, addressed to a post office box, beneath it. The letter was dated the day that Tracy had turned up missing.

Potential there, but only on Lestat’s say so. He and Louis had not been out of their room since the night I’d gone with Lestat to speak to Victor Rimbaud and so I hadn’t told him about it yet. There was every chance that he already knew everything that I knew apart from the information in the file, but it’s been my experience that prepared is always better. Always. Anything John came up with would just be that much extra.

John. It really had been a coincidence, running into him at Johnny’s at lunchtime. I’d had an unreasonably strong urge for a shrimp po’boy and he walked in at the same time I did. Not long afterward, we were sweating it up back at my place and it’d been a lot more fun than an ordinary phone call would have been. John’s pointed remark about me wanting something? Well, he’d been right. Still, it was fair to say he’d wanted something, too. After all, I hadn’t had to twist his arm to get him into bed, this or any other time.

I turned my attention back to the scant information I had on Edward Marchland. He’d been in Atlanta just prior to moving to Louisiana--not to New Orleans but discreetly close. His interest seemed to be primarily in Louis and by extension, Lestat but then again, I didn’t know if he’d also been trying to gather information on Marius and his little family. The fact that there were five vampires living in such close proximity might have some sort of meaning to them though it had been that way for a while now. It occurred to me that Marius’ increasingly urgent phone calls may have had more behind them than whatever Lestat had done weeks ago to warn off the crazy kiddies. 

“It smells funny in here.” Lestat said from the door of my bedroom. I looked up from the file in my lap, only just noticing how dim the room was. He switched on the lights. “Had a little company today, did you?” He eyed the rumpled bed.

“All in the line of duty.” I told him. He raised an eyebrow. “A donation of sorts to the local law in return for a favor.” I clarified. “I ran into John Chaisson at lunch today. I thought it might be useful to gather some information on Marchland.

“Gather away. It is unlikely that you will find out very much.” Lestat said with a cool smile. He had tied his hair back, tight and smooth against his skull. "It will not matter at the end of the game. Have you found out where he is?” 

“I think so. John should be able to confirm it; might even be tonight. I’m pretty sure he’s over in Mandeville.”

He nodded. His eyes had gone flinty. “I’ll find you later. We will be out for a while.” He turned to leave.

“Lestat?” He stopped and looked back at me.“Marius called several times last night.”

“Did he? Well, I shall have to see what’s so urgent, won’t I? Thank you, Brian. And by the way…” He reached into his pocket and drew something out, tossing it to me. I caught it and knew without looking that it was the vial. His blood. When I looked back at the doorway he was gone.

**Louis**

How many nights had passed in this bed? How many hours fastened to one another, joined in body and in blood? At some point the tide turned and I took him in hand to ease the anxious worry that had been growing in him. He knew all now, knew it from the mind-link that had been unbroken as a result of repeated blood sharing. His anxiety had fled, expiated by comprehension and impassioned lovemaking.

My mind felt clearer and there was in me a certain excitement, something I caught from Lestat’s mood when he rose from the bed earlier. He had awakened filled with ferocious good humor. “Come Louis. We’ll go out, mingle with the rarified elite this evenig. I’ll be back in a few minutes; I need to speak with Brian.” He rummaged around in the top drawer of the bureau and extracted a little bottle. “I’m afraid I was rather abrupt with him the other night”

“An apology, my love?” I asked him, still lying on the bloodied and torn sheets. I watched him tie his hair back in a rather severe queue and licked my lips at the sight of his long thigh, his beautiful hipline.

“Why, yes, so it is." He sat at the edge of the bed and reached for one of the ornate little daggers on the night table. “I was quite savage with him and really, it was nothing that he’d done. He saved me from what might have been an unconsidered _faux pas_ , truth to tell.” He pushed the point of the dagger deeply into his inner forearm and pressed the little vial to his arm to allow the blood to flow into the tiny opening. The scent of his fresh blood quickened me once again and I abandoned my languid pose. The bottle filled quickly and the wound had already knit itself closed, but there was still a beautiful crimson smear on his arm. He leaned back a bit and I crept across him to lick him clean.

When I had finished, he stood up and went to the closet, emerging several minutes later dressed with low-key elegance.

“Just where are we going?”

“Out for dinner.” He said with a little laugh. “Something a little different than my usual fare of late”

“Are we expected?” I asked. 

“Not as such. But I believe the chances of our being turned away at the door are slim”

I eyed him dubiously.

“Louis! Come on! It’ll be fun. It’s nothing to do with anything else that’s been going on. I thought we’d forget about all of that for tonight.”

The gleam in his eyes gave away his little game and invited me to be swept along in his urgent and insistent wake.“I wouldn’t think to deny you, my darling.” I told him. And so he’d gone to see Brian and when he came back, I came down the stairs at his call. I had dressed carefully, selecting clothing I knew he would like.

“There you are, Louis.” He said from where he stood at the open front door. There was about him even more of an aura of contained excitement. “You are perfection, my love. Are you ready to go? Brian has called ahead, so we are expected. Marius has been most anxious to speak with me, you know.” He said, as though etiquette was of paramount importance.

“Ah, yes. And so you are rushing to ease his anxiety."

**Narration**

“It was uncalled for. Desirée was frightened to death.”

“It would have been a mere inconvenience if you had taught those two anything at all. I would say you haven’t, considering the trail of bodies they were leaving about the city while you and David cozied up in Wales. Consider it fortunate for them that the bodies were not theirs, left to burn away come dawn. Keep them out of the city, Marius. If you can’t, then it would be best if you took them somewhere else; I can’t say that I feel much like controlling my temper these days.”

Marius bit back a retort. He was not in the mood for verbal fencing with Lestat and there had been an agreement of sorts between them, back when Marius had first decided he would like to take up residence in Louisiana. He hadn’t even brought it up, though he had been quite provoked when he’d gotten the call from his hysterical housekeeper. Lestat’s little gift--two drained corpses on his side verandah--had been a nuisance at the very least and trying to get his two fledglings to pay any sort of attention to anything other than their own desires was well nigh impossible.

“Lestat, “Marius said in a reasonable tone, “As tasteless and amusing as your threats may be, that wasn’t why I wanted to speak to you.”

Lestat caught a deliberate thought from Marius, a glimpse of the ancient Talamascan motherhouse, the one in Amsterdam. He curled his lip. “Surely it’s not the sneaking little Talamascan that’s been insinuating himself where he doesn’t belong. You never cared what they did before.”

Marius watched Lestat cross the room and twitch the curtain aside to look out. “Neither did you, if I remember correctly.”

“ _Au contraire_." Lestat said, with an impatient little gesture. “I have always paid them more attention than they cared for. “ He turned to Marius, eyes glittering. “Just ask David.”

“It appears that the activity of my two errant companions has caught their attention, or so David tells me. “ Marius said, ignoring the jibe.

“David told me a while ago that he no longer had anything to do with them.”

“He hears things.” Marius said simply.

“So this villain came here because of them, did he? All the more reason you should vacate.“ He appeared to think it over. “That and my tasteless and amusing threats, of course”

“Perhaps you know of another reason they have become so interested?” Marius asked.

“Perhaps I do, but it’s neither here nor there. I find their interference tiresome”

“And you plan to do what, exactly?”

“I’m sure I’ll be breaking several of your precious rules, whatever I decide to do. “

“That’s not an answer.” Marius said chidingly. 

“I didn’t know I owed you one.” Lestat retorted. “Let’s just say that I have decided to be more aggressive in keeping my city free of those who insist on interfering with us”

“Your city,” Marius said, musingly. “You have always been a possessive soul, Lestat.

“And you have always been a redundant one. I’ve never said I wasn’t possessive. "

“And the agent?” Marius persisted

“You won’t have to worry about it if you leave, now will you?” Louis’s voice was flat. Both Lestat and Marius turned when he entered the room. “Is it not clear to you, Marius? If you can’t control them, your fledglings will perish, whether it is here or in some other place at the hands of some other immortal whose territory they encroach upon." He gazed at Marius for a long moment. “Or is it that you would be rid of them?”

“I wonder, Louis, that anyone has ever made the mistake of calling you polite.” Marius said dryly.

“Of what use are manners in such situations?” Louis countered. 

Marius turned from him, exasperation evident in his movements, his expression. “I can only think, Lestat,” He said, pointedly ignoring Louis’ words, “That there is something specific about this agent that has stirred you up. Do you think he is a threat?”

“Hardly. I have grown tired of the constant insinuation into our affairs; it’s as simple as that”

Marius snorted. “Nothing is ever simple with you.”

“Be that as it may,” Louis said, a distant smile on his lips, “Lestat is well able to deal with this situation”

“Enough of this.” Lestat snapped testily, “Stay or leave but keep your two clear of me. Believe me, I _will_ be responsible for what occurs should they stray again”

 

****

Brian

I was settling down to indulge in Lestat’s gift; the little bottle of precious blood that he gave to me when the mood suited him. It was my sacrament, the drug that fed my craving and like any acolyte or any junkie, I had a ritual that I followed with fevered zeal. First came contemplation; sitting still and gazing at the ruby richness visible through the scrolled silver jacket of the vial. Feeling the small, specific weight of the vessel in my hand. This reverie sometimes held me in thrall for as long as an hour. Not so this evening, because the gate buzzer sounded jolting me upright and filling me with an unreasonable vehemence. I hit the intercom button on the wall.

“This better be good.” I snarled into it, glancing at the clock. It was nearly midnight and I wasn’t expecting anyone. 

“Brian, it’s Perry. I’m sorry it’s so late.” Her voice was startled and hesitant.

“Never mind,” I said heavily. “Come on back. The door to the garden is unlocked.” I released the lock and flicked the switch to light the carriageway for her. I tucked the bottle into the front pocket of my jeans and went to my front door to wait for her.

Perry emerged from the tangle of vines by the door and looked about uncertainly for a moment before she came toward my porch. “I called, but your phone was busy.” She said as I ushered her into the house, closing the door on the humidity and the cloud of mosquitoes that kept vigil by the porch light. “God, it’s hot tonight.” She looked uncomfortable. 

“Have a seat.” I said, already considerably calmer. If she’d come here, there had to be a pretty good reason. “Beer? I’ve got some Dixies. You look like you could use one.” She did, too. Her face was thinner and she looked pale and tired. She ignored the glass I brought her and downed half the bottle in one grateful swallow and stifled an unladylike burp. “So, what brings you by?”

Perry set the bottle down and pushed the yellow envelope she’d laid on the coffee table toward me. “I worked late. Waited until everyone left and went to see if I could find anything in Tracy's office from our friend Mr. Marchland. I’m always there at weird hours so it didn’t look strange or anything.” She tapped the file with a manicured nail. “I think this is everything. I checked through nearly every drawer in that office. The cops have been through it, but she had this one taped up under one of the file drawers. I don’t think they looked too hard.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Pretty good thinking.”

“Yeah, well. I just scanned the letters. I was nervous having them, to tell you the truth.” She pushed the folder across the table to me and I opened it to take a look. There were several letters regarding properties that they owned in New Orleans and elsewhere, including a few that were not in either of their true names. Another that queried about one of the Arts foundations they sponsored and several letters about the property on the River Road. Another about the Fourniers and one enquiring whether Tara had any contact with an M. Romano in Metairie. I held it up.

“Is he a client?”

“Not under that name.” she said, sipping the dregs of her beer. “And I’ve never seen him at the office, though that’s not an indicator, really. And I think I’d know him if I saw him.”  
I nodded. Once you knew about them, it wasn’t too difficult to pick them out. The thing is, most people deny what they see. She’d begun to relax somewhat and she was looking about the room. 

“Did you take that picture?” she pointed. It was one of Lestat and Louis that I’d taken in Florida, a candid one of Louis seated on one of the chairs on the balcony. Lestat had just come out to join him and I took the picture as Louis had turned his head to look up. The photograph showed the white gleam of Louis’ fangs as he smiled up at Lestat

“Yes. That was in Florida.” I said.

“It’s beautiful. Really beautiful.” Perry’s voice had a note in it that I recognized all too well.

“Brian is an excellent photographer.” Came a voice from the doorway. “He has a particular knack for catching Louis at just the right moments.” They came into the room, bringing with them an air of languid satiation. No visible wounds anywhere and they looked rosy, so I surmised they’d been hunting. It had not occurred to Perry to think such a thing. She smiled tentatively as Louis rounded the table and raised her up by taking her two hands in his.

“It’s good to see you, Persephone.” He said, leaning to kiss her on both cheeks. She flushed but kept her cool. 

”Thank you. It’s nice to see you again, too.”

Louis smiled. “You are too kind. I’m afraid I must apologize for my remarks the last time we met”

“Not at all.” Perry said, unconsciously adopting his somewhat formal speech pattern. “You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

Beside me, Lestat erupted into laughter, causing Perry to start rather violently. Louis patted her shoulder amiably, but he was looking at Lestat, eyes shining. When he collected himself, Lestat grinned at her. “Enough of this formality, _chérie_. After all, you have seen both of us at less than our best lately, have you not? It would seem that you have managed to gain Brian’s confidence as well as Louis’. “

“Perry found a few interesting things taped to the bottom of a file drawer in Tracy’s office.” I said, picking up the folder and handing it to him.

“How clever of you to look there,” Lestat remarked as he leafed through the papers. His lips tightened slightly as he read. “Interesting, indeed. “ He closed the folder and looked at Perry. “Thank you for bringing them. It was a risk, no doubt, to be in her office.”

“Not too much. I worked late and no one else was there. Still, I’m glad you have them now.” She blinked, reddening again as Louis leaned toward her, delicately sniffing the air near her shoulder. 

“You are anxious," Louis said. His voice sounded hoarse. “No need to be. None at all.” And of course his words had the effect of making her more anxious for he had a distant look in his eyes that gave him a rather vulpine aspect. He s eemedentirely unaware of it. I glanced meaningfully at Lestat. 

“Louis, my love. Come, we will retire,” he said indulgently. 

Louis smiled sweetly at him. “I should love that above all things,” he said. “ _Bonne nuit, ma chérie_.”

“Good night.” Perry managed to say, even as Louis gave her an affectionate embrace. Lestat nodded to her, smiling widely. They left as suddenly as they had come in. Perry sat back down rather hurriedly. “Jesus. What was that all about?”

“You don’t want to know,” I said. She looked up at me.

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” she said, getting up a little unsteadily. “I’ll just get myself another beer, okay?”

Next: Chapter Ten


	10. They Watch and They are Always Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction and some clarifications.

****

~Chapter Ten~

Narration

The Edward Marchland that Brian first pictured in his mind’s eye was an older gentleman, white-haired and scholarly. He had no reason to think that Marchland was old other than Lestat’s descriptives of Aaron Lightner and, of course, David Talbot before the infamous body thief situation. He himself had never had any contact with their operatives that he knew of. When John Chaisson presented him with the facts that he’d dug up, Brian was surprised to find that Edward Marchland was, in fact, a bare year older than he was.

Chaisson’s report confirmed the Mandeville address and the phone number that Brian already had and John had even made a copy of Marchland’s Georgia driver’s license. The photograph, though not very flattering, showed a reasonably agreeable face and reported that Marchland had brown eyes and light brown hair. He had no criminal record and his driver’s record was impeccably ticket-free. Chaisson also found out that Marchland had been born in the town of Ten Mile, Tennessee and that his mother lived in Chattanooga. These were the things that Brian knew and it was precious little, as Lestat had predicted.

What Brian did not know was that Edward Marchland was much petted by the Order. One might even say that he was fawned over, that is, if such an august body as the Talamasca could ever be said to lower itself to being at all ingratiating. There were those within the structure who came precariously close to doing just that and this was evidenced by Marchland receiving the assignment he requested to New Orleans to do update research on the vampires currently residing there.

Marchland had been with the order since he was in his mid-teens, coming to the attention of the Talamasca when the scam he was running with his mother in Tennessee turned out to be more or less authentic. Marchland’s _psi_ quotient was exceedingly high and his mother had taken note of this. From an early age she had used her son to glean information from the people that came to her to have their fortunes told. Although she used him this way, she had never been abusive with him, but loving and overly protective of him both as her son and as a business investment. If she herself had no talent at all, those who crossed her palm with greenbacks at least got some measure of comfort in her readings and Loretta and her boy were able to haul themselves up from the mire of poverty Loretta’s family had always existed in their rural Tennessee home.

His talent combined with his innate intelligence made him precocious and after each ‘initial consultation’ Edward would sit and tell his mother what he’d been able to see as he skimmed the surface thoughts of the bereft, the greedy and the salacious. It was not long until he began to help her with the readings, coaching her as to what he thought each person might want to hear. He found that he was able to nudge their belief in Loretta Marchland’s abilities so that it never occurred to them to distrust anything she might say as well as pushing them to come for return visits.

After a while Loretta’s fame began to spread. Edward kept them under the radar of any authority that might take too close an interest in just how much Loretta’s yearly income had begun to soar. Instead of visiting Loretta in their tiny house in rural Tennessee, they came to see her in her stylish little storefront in Chattanooga, readings by appointment only in the back of a shop that catered to those with interests that lay in esoteric, less mainstream religions and beliefs. Books and crystals, statues and incense and jewelry-- their income now had a source and Loretta, who was every bit as intelligent as her son and always meticulous with money, kept pristine books that were above reproach. The fees she collected from the readings were the only omission.

In his early teens Edward began to notice other things. He was able see things and hear things that he realized others could not. He kept much of this to himself, for though he loved his mother dearly he had no wish to further enlarge her services to those who came to call. As it was some of the things he saw in the minds of others appalled and offended him; to tell her that he could also see or hear what he believed were spirits went beyond what he was willing to do for her.

It was his mother’s reputation that eventually attracted the noticed of the Talamasca and when one of them came to check the rumors out, he found immediately that it was the son, not the mother who possessed the talent. After months of careful courtship, Edward agreed to study with the Order on the condition that he would be allowed frequent visits with his mother and he was taken under the wing of Ambrose Stahl with whom he developed a deep bond.

Loretta Marchland was only too happy to retire and with the comfortable allowance Edward collected added to her own careful investments and the lucrative income from her store, Edward saw her firmly ensconced in a gracious antebellum mansion in Natchez. Loretta told him that she’d always known he would be the fulfillment of all of her dreams, and it had worked out just that way. With Loretta settled, Edward did not feel the need to visit her quite so often and he threw himself into various areas of study under Ambrose’s guidance. Although he himself was gifted, he did not feel the need to connect with others that had the same leanings, and was instead fascinated first with hauntings and then with vampires.

There was a much more inherent danger associated with this field than with many of the others, Ambrose warned. They had lost two of their own members to the lure of immortality, but they could just as easily have been killed. Edward felt he could handle it. His research combined with his intuition and his inherent talents made it possible for him to shed light on areas that had heretofore remained blank spots in some of the histories. He did not ask for a contact assignment until he felt he was ready, and even then, he was careful only to watch. He spent several years in Paris observing the Vampire Eric, keeping his distance and as far as he or any of the others knew, he had remained undetected, even during one period when the powerful Vampire Maharet had taken up residence for several months with Eric. Edward’s success went far in convincing Ambrose that he would be able to keep himself relatively safe in New Orleans.

Edward’s fascination with the vampires lay not only in how they spent their time, but with the mortal remnants of their families. He’d traced quite a few members of Eric’s family, descendants of his brothers and his sister. Likewise, he’d found tenuous links to the Vampire Armand, now believed to actually be deceased. His newest interest was in the Vampire Louis and any family that he might have still intact. Edward had already located one such familial link, though the ancestral origin of the child he’d found with the help of Tracy Harvey was ambiguous. His best guess thus far linked her to Louis de Pointe du Lac’s maternal side. Genealogy comprised only part of Marchland’s research, and so he had no notion as he sat before his computer in his rented house in Mandeville, Louisiana that he had set into motion what had already proven to be a rather deadly series of events.

****

(Lestat)

The Fourniers lived in an exquisitely restored Garden District home, the very epitome of refinement and understated elegance. The rooms downstairs glowed invitingly and from within I heard music and conversation; it appeared that the Fourniers had guests. The party had not pooled out into the back garden and only one of the upstairs rooms had a light on. There was a roofed gallery outside the lighted room and it was within easy springing distance; I landed without a sound. The glass doors were open, with only a screen slider closed to keep the mosquitoes out.

Julia Fournier sat on the floor with a pad of paper and the contents of a box of bright crayons spread about her. She wore a white nightdress imprinted with tiny violets and detailed with bows and lace. One rarely saw such finely made things in this day and age. The child herself was also very finely made. The resemblance Louis had marked was startling, so much so that when I first stepped across the gallery and looked into her window I had a moment of curious vertigo, a sensation so unusual it took me a moment to identify just what I was feeling. 

Her bedroom was a confection of candy pink and billowing chintz, but she was quite untouched by her surroundings. There were discarded drawings all about her and she worked on her current drawing with calm concentration, fine brows drawn in and pink tongue caught between her teeth in an utterly familiar way. She stopped what she was doing and lifted her head in a listening attitude. Her long hair hung over her shoulders like a veil and she stared into some middle distance, singing to herself.

_“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away  
Wild, wild horses couldn’t drag me away”_

Julia blinked, suddenly focused on where I stood on the shadowy porch. I moved back, not wishing to frighten her and she squinted a little and stared harder; she was not afraid. After a moment she went back to her drawing, still humming the same two bars of the song she’d been singing. She was very like Juliette--the same fine bones, the same dusky, rose-tinged complexion and the same lovely fall of dark hair. Her hair seemed too lush, too thick, with none of the baby fineness one would expect for a girl of her age. I skimmed her thoughts, the lightest of touches, to get a feeling for what she might be thinking.

_“…what are the other words? Lucinda, aunt Lucinda plays it all the time, and I love her, even if mommy thinks she’s ‘funny’…we’ll ride them someday. I wonder if the angel knows the words? mommy and daddy’s friends are too loud, they must be drinking wine and that makes them get drunk and wild, wild horses couldn’t drag me away from a dull, achy pain…”_

I withdrew, eyes still tracing the curve of her cheek, blooming with wild roses nourished by a day out in the sunlight. There were voices in the hall and she turned her head when the door opened. “There’s my girl!” Julia’s father came in with a tall brunette wearing the merest slip of a dress. Julia regarded them both warily. “Julia, do you remember Mrs. Beaumont?”

The woman smiled an ingratiatingly false smile. “Hello Julia. “

“Hello,” Julia said. 

“What are you drawing, pumpkin?”

“Nothing,” Julia said. “Daddy, there’s an angel on the porch”

He smiled broadly and winked at the woman. “Your guardian angel?”

“No. A different one,” she said, glancing at the window.

“You see angels?” The woman asked, a little frown on her face.

“Only one other time.” Julia said. She chose a yellow crayon. The man walked over to her and she dutifully stood and presented her cheek to be kissed good night. When they left the room her shoulders sagged with visible relief. 

****

(Louis)

I waited for him on the balcony, sitting in the fragrant darkness. He’d gone to see her, and in my head I heard Lestat’s long-ago words with the vampire’s bitter clarity.

_“Une si belle petite fille. Dites-moi...elle est vous?” Lestat’s voice had been laced with a formless malice, cruelly suspicious. I hadn’t wanted to even look at him, much less answer the question.  
“Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?”_

_Juliette had answered for me. “My father is dead.” She told him. “You can meet my maman when she wakes up tomorrow. She’s sleeping now”_

Bitter clarity. It is not one of the attributes that I have gained that I indulge in; I do not care to look back too often, preferring to stay focused on the present. The years I spent alone taught me far too much about just how minutely crystalline my memory could be if I did not deliberately choose to blur the edges or ignore it altogether. There are those times, however, when things happen and those doors are flung wide. 

I heard the creak of the back door and a moment later, Brian’s light step on the stairwell. He strode down the hall and when he paused I knew he had stopped to look into the office where Lestat had left a light burning. “Lestat is not at home.” I said when he stepped out onto the balcony. 

“Ah,” he said, peering at me. “I’ll come back, then.” 

“What do you have there, Brian?” He was holding a file folder. 

“Just the little bit Officer Chaisson was able to find on Marchland…” His voice trailed off, doubtless because of my questioning look. “The Talamasca guy.” He supplied. I remembered the name, then. 

“What about him?” I gestured for Brian to sit. He did so and I noted that he was not so flustered as he once was in my presence, stepping over my outstretched legs and settling his lanky frame into the chair in the far corner of the balcony. He extended his arm to hand me the file, but I waved it aside. 

“Just tell me, would you?” I said. 

“Not much to tell,” he said. “Lestat said it would be like this. Marchland is from Tennessee and he’s pretty much your average law-abiding American. No record or anything. I got a look at his latest DMV photo, so I know what he looks like and John found out that his mother is a well-known and well-regarded psychic with some pretty rich clientele. I suppose we can infer that Edward is the source of her ‘power’, since he is part of the Talamasca and she is not.” 

I found this to be very astute on his part, and once again it struck me that Lestat’s reasons for having Brian around had very often been to our advantage. “Do you know why he has decided to pursue Julia and her family?” 

He studied me with a measured gaze for a moment. “Julia is your descendent, right? Well, it appears he has found this out and it also appears that Edward’s passion seems to be genealogy.” 

“And you know this how?” 

“I don’t know it for certain, but there are pointers; for one he’s been spending a lot of time at the Historic New Orleans Collection down on the 500 block.” He waved his hand in the general direction. “Also, the State Museum and Williams Research.” 

I didn’t ask him how he’d found these things out. He has contacts all over the area. Chameleon-like, he seems able to blend in easily with the various strata that make up the City. “Surely the Order knows these things already?” I said. 

He shrugged. “Maybe they want to know more.” 

“That child’s family knows very little, only that they have a long history on the River Road.” 

He looked directly into my eyes for a long moment, longer than he usually does. “I saw the portrait of Juliette,” he said. 

“And?” 

“And she looks very like you. This child, this Julia…she reminds you of the other little one.” 

“What are you trying to say?” I said, faintly irritated. He shrugged. 

“They know what you look like. Maybe they’re interested because she looks a bit like you. I don’t know. I could always approach this guy and ask him.” 

“You could do that, but I would prefer you had no contact with him or with any of them.” 

Brian nodded slowly. “If that’s how you want it.” 

“Juliette was not my child.” I said abruptly. “There were those who believed she was, but they were wrong. Yvette knew, though. We both knew and it was bound to happen, the way things went during that summer. It was easier for my mother to think the child was mine, but in her heart, what there was of it, she knew the truth of it.” 

“Whose child was she?” Brian said, almost as though he were speaking to himself. 

“Juliette was my niece.” 

****

(Louis)

Usually at such a point in any conversation with Louis he will become disinterested to the point of ignoring any further conversation on my part, whether he has granted me some revelation, as he had just now, or if he had me engaged in a conversation about something as mundane as cotton undershirts. Sometimes he will turn the conversation, but more often than not he will simply rise and leave. At other times, He will sense or hear Lestat approaching. When that happens, there is not much one can do to recapture his attention. This time, none of those things occurred and Louis sat watching me with his glittering green eyes. Thunder rumbled to the northwest, out over Ponchartrain. Louis prodded my ankle with a bare foot, pale in the shadows.

“I can scarcely believe you are silent, _cher_ ,” he said. Randomly, I thought to myself that his accent sounded pronounced; very sharp, very clean. “No questions?”

I put the file folder on the low, iron table between the chairs we were sitting on. The table had irregular mounds of hardened wax in various places from the beeswax candles they burn. I periodically pry up the drippings and repaint that table. “A few come to mind,” I admitted. It was only then that I realized how his remark had surprised me. He said nothing, settling back with his hands folded over his flat belly. “Your sister’s child?”

“My sister never bore any children to term. Juliette was my brother’s child, gotten on one of the house servants. Her name was Cécile.”

“Your brother?” I asked incredulously. “The religious one?”

“I only had one brother, Brian.” Louis said patiently. “It was his extreme guilt concerning his activities with the girl and the result that put him over the edge, as you say these days.”

“He must have been pretty young when that happened.”

“Old enough, it would seem.” Louis said acerbically. “Tell me. How old were you the first time?”

“Fifteen.” I said.

“Very young, _oui_?”

“Okay. I see your point.” I said, nodding. “Another question?”

“By all means.” He stared past me, up the street toward Ursulines. The first drops of rain fell, pattering on the roof of the balcony and sending up a familiar, strong odor from the hot pavement below.

“On the back of Juliette’s portrait it says ‘Juliette de Pointe du Lac’. In the papers that Tracy Harvey had printed out for Marchland it’s noted that Julia is a relation on your maternal side.”

Louis laughed shortly, a sound more like a bark than a laugh, really. I blinked. “Your pardon.” Louis said after a moment. He did not bother to explain the abrupt laughter. “I was the one who commissioned the portrait. The writing on the back is mine. It was the child’s name, after all.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow. How is it that she was traced to your mother’s side of the family?”

“My mother would not countenance her. She did everything she could to make that child’s life miserable and so I took her from there. She was eventually raised by a cousin of mine, the daughter of my mother’s elder brother. I would not have her life any more miserable than it had been to that point. She never married and so Juliette took her name. It infuriated my mother.”

I sat still, digesting that. Clearly Louis and his mother had been at odds way before she accused him of murdering his brother. I glanced at him, wondering if he was picking up on my thoughts. A glance was all I needed to see that tonight’s Q&A was over with. The scornfulness that had shown on his face when he had spoken about his mother had disappeared entirely and he stood gracefully, his head cocked. From below I heard Lestat call Louis’ name and Louis moved past me in a blur, up and over the rail to the street below. I leaned over and watched Lestat catch him as he landed. They spun in a dizzy, quick dance on the rain-shined pavement and Lestat’s laughter rang in the narrow street.

Next: Chapter Eleven


	11. You Won't Give Up the Search for the Ghosts in the Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Brian is shadowed and Lestat & Louis have a discussion.

**~Chapter Eleven~**

**Narration**

Edward Marchland watched from a half block up as Brian closed the gate to the carriageway behind him. He checked it to make sure it was locked and ambled down Royal St. Marchland moved to follow, cautious not to get too close. He felt a bit foolish, like a boy playing detective, but he'd done more foolish things than this to gain an objective. Stopping when he saw Brian step into the coffee shop on the corner he watched Brian ordered his drink and sat at a table by the window to look through the paper as he sipped. Marchland didn't mind; waiting was no chore for him. He took snapshots, leaning against the warm brick. He watched people as they passed him, trying to distinguish tourists from locals.

He knew he needed to be careful; it had been nearly two weeks since he had any communication from Tracy Harvey and he had found out through some careful inquiry that she was considered to be missing. He had no reason to think that she had met with foul play other than his own sense of guilt for having put her in what was a potentially dangerous position. Would it anger Louis or his capricious maker to find out that she had been in touch with the Order? He had no way of knowing. While he waited, he snapped several photos of Brian, sitting with his paper. 

Edward found himself interested in Brian Callahan for certainly his was a singular existence. Sixteen years living in close contact with a pair of vampires was extraordinary to say the least. Top that off with the fact that to all outward appearances, Brian functioned quite normally, going about day-to-day business as though there were nothing strange at all about the life he led. There was a file for him, of course, stored with Lestat de Lioncourt's voluminous files and Edward had gone over it with a fine–toothed comb. 

It was not unknown for vampires to take a liking to this or that mortal, keeping them about almost as one kept a pet, but as far as Marchland knew, there were no documented cases of such a lengthy relationship that had not ended in either the death of the mortal, or bringing the mortal over to a vampiric existence. Of course, Edward thought, either of these things could still happen and unless the latter occurred, the former was inevitable one way or another.

Brian had been approached before, of course, though he was likely unaware that it was the Talamasca doing the approaching. Their questions, however innocuous they might be, rolled off him as though he were oiled. It was Edward's opinion that he had survived being around Louis because of his loyalty to Lestat; not much else would ensure his safety around Louis. There were those who thought, perhaps, that Louis was one of the weaker vampires; Edward did not count himself among them.

Across the street in the coffee shop, a young man approached Brian. Edward watched them exchange pleasantries. After the acquaintance left, Brian folded the paper and left it on the table, dropped his cup in the trash bin and left the coffee shop.

Edward had a bit of trouble keeping up; Brian was long-legged and he moved briskly. He turned the corner at Dumaine and by the time Edward turned he just caught Brian disappearing down Chartres. Not that it would have been that difficult to see him. Brian was tall and he had a distinctive, rolling gait, as though he'd just stepped off a ship. He was also strikingly good-looking, though he seemed quite unaware of it. 

Edward stayed behind him. They passed by the readers and the artists in front of the Cathedral, Brian raising his hand to a few of them as he went, and then continuing down Chartres. Edward had to wait there for a while when Brian was ushered into the Whitney National Bank, already closed for business.

**(Lestat)**

We awakened at precisely the same moment and Louis reached to take my face into his two hands.

" _Mon amour_ ," he breathed, licking my eyelashes. The room was dim and the silks that swathed our entwined bodies were cool to the touch. Indeed, we were cool, naked and thirsting. I rolled my head back, baring my neck to him.

"Later, my beauty. I think I should like to watch you hunt first," his voice was quietly seductive and I growled involuntarily. He laughed and I sought his mouth, hungry for much more than mere mortal blood. His ardent response precluded any speech between us for some time and we surrendered for a while to the sweet rapture of languid kissing. I initiated a slow effleurage on the smooth skin over his ribcage, kneading and circling and feeling his muscles shiver under my hand; his breathing steepened.

"Watch you," he muttered against my collarbone. "…hunt." 

"You really are remarkably single-minded, Louis." 

"How astute of you to notice," he teased, wriggling from my embrace and rolling from the bed. ""Come, Lestat—a walk through your domain, yes? You have not told me about your visit to _la petite jeune fille_ , and I know you are thirsting." His smile was radiant. How could anyone, least of all me, refuse?

He sat on the straight-backed chair in the dressing room so I might comb out his hair, letting the silky thickness of it caress the back of my hands as I did so. I tied it back for him as I had done for long years. I looked at him in the mirror, his green eyes slitted in cat-like bliss. He opened them fully and met my gaze. "You should dress." 

"And so should you." I countered. He rose and I followed him to the closet, there to choose clothing and to kiss his back, the sweet nape of his neck. 

He turned and pulled me close. "I have been remiss," he confided. "All these worries of things that can never be changed and you have been so patient."

I laughed. "For once in my life!" I said. 

A half an hour later found us walking on Chartres, nearing the Cathedral. Heat lightning flickered over our heads and the sultry air was laden with moisture. There was not even a hint of a breeze.

"I saw her for the first time coming out of there."

I nodded. "So you told me."

"What did you think when you saw her?" His voice held a curious childlike innocence.

"I thought it was easy to see how she would have brought up the past so easily. She is very like Juliette. So much so that I felt my breath catch." 

Louis nodded thoughtfully and reached to grasp my hand. "This Marchland. Why do you think he has sought her out in particular?"

"Why do they do any of the things they do? Another fact for their files. Buildings filled with files and facts and things we leave behind. Hard drives stuffed with information and yet they will always look for more."

"I wonder, Lestat, if he might like to hear first hand how I would rather he probe the remnants of someone else's family."

I looked at him, his fine profile limned by the brightly lighted window of the restaurant we were passing. How intriguing. "You are going to tell him?"

He shrugged and looked at me beguilingly. " _Peut-être. Pas ce soir_."

NEXT: Chapter Twelve


	12. The Dark Side's Light and the Vampires Roam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are several discussions.

**~Chapter Twelve~**

**Narration**

‘I have observed the subjects a number of times together and separately as well as in the company of several different mortals. Their movements seem innocuous, even mundane and Lestat especially does a creditable job of blending in with the mortals that surround him. It would seem that both Lestat and Louis no longer have the need for a nightly infusion of living blood in order to sustain themselves. I am basing this upon observation as well as researching murder and death statistics in the Times-Picayune. There are many unsolved murders in this city, but relatively few where the cause of death is indeterminable. It is arguable, I suppose, that they are likely to have hidden the bodies of their victims in a way that avoids any such examination, but the statistics coupled with Lioncourt’s own words stating that the elder vampires need to feed but rarely, as do those who have shared blood with them have led me to this conclusion. Lioncourt, of course, shared blood with the eldest of these.’

Marchland sat back, mulling over the entry. It was so much padding; he knew it and his superiors would know it as well. The myriad files they kept were stuffed with such padding, but it was generally accepted because one never knew when an innocuous statement might at some point loom large in hindsight. He continued.

‘It is also my opinion that Louis de Pointe du Lac is a much stronger vampire than anyone has heretofore believed. The pair is well nigh inseparable, which we know is a rarity among their kind. To further buttress my statement, they often exhibit a hyper-sexuality when they are together, which leads me to believe that they often share blood.’

Marchland knew that his opinion on that matter was just that; an opinion. He had no evidence with which to back up the statement, not even a psychic hint; he had been unsuccessful at reading even a stray thought from either one of them and indeed, when he had followed Brian Callahan and seen them for the first time, they had known he was there and he had not even thought to try to read them. Lestat had, in fact, very easily read his thoughts and the one feeling Edward did have was that he had not even been trying very hard to do so.

“I remain convinced that there is no point in approaching Brian Callahan again. The files already available have suggested this and that information coupled with my observations confirm this. His loyalty seems unassailable; he has, after all, been with them for over fifteen years. It is doubtful that he would keep any knowledge of the current activities of the Order to himself.’

Marchland was at the CC’s on Esplanade enjoying his Mochassippi and the free high-speed internet. It was quiet enough, even though it was busy; most of the people that surrounded him were reading or working on their laptops and those that were not seemed content with quiet conversation. 

The omission of certain facts in the report in no way troubled him. They would be exposed or not, but in the meantime he still had time to conduct his own inquiries without the anxious reining in of his superiors, including Ambrose. The fact that his subjects had taken note of him had not shaken his confidence; it was very likely that they did not much care who he was or why he was following Brian. One of the surprising facts he’d discovered was that the nature of what sort of creatures they were was not exactly a secret. Perhaps it was just this town; he had noticed no such thing when he’d been watching the Vampire Eric in Paris. At any rate, Edward felt that if he kept a low profile, he would be able to continue his investigations unmolested. 

He was still troubled by the disappearance of Tracy Harvey, though not for his own sake as much as for the part he had played in it. He supposed that was one disappearance that would remain a mystery—the firm had been associated with the Pointe du Lac name for a very long time and the Order was very much aware that such associations, carried out for generations, tended to remain secretive to an astonishing degree. Marchland performed a spell check on the email, encrypted it and sent it off to the Houses in Amsterdam, London and New Orleans.

**(Louis)**

I had not gone out with the intention of searching him out, this Edward Marchland. I had not gone out with any intentions at all, other than to walk, to clear my mind and attempt to ascertain why my thoughts seemed so perplexingly muddied.

I have always known there were remnants of my family in the area as Lestat had pointed out some nights back. Sometimes I felt moved to help one or the other of them in some small way and sometimes I made myself known to them for a little time. Seeing the child had opened a door to the past which was not so easily shut for reasons that I still had yet to fathom. I suspect now that the arrival of Marchland had alerted me in some way that I was not, at first, consciously aware of. I have dwelt in this city for long years and although I am not so particular as Lestat as to who might be encroaching upon it unless we are directly disturbed, I suppose that my instincts are more attuned than my waking mind to such invasions.

Walking down Esplanade I’d caught it, a brief snippet of thought and because it involved Lestat, it rang with clarion brilliance. I stood still for a long moment, casting about, but all that I heard was the normal confused babble of thought that I always shut out without even thinking about it. I looked into the window of the coffee shop as I passed it and his face clicked into place, the memory of the small photograph that Brian had shown me suddenly flaring.

He was one of several people crouched over laptop computers and even as I watched he seemed to have concluded whatever it was he had been doing, for he sat back and after a moment he closed the machine and reached for his beverage. Prodigiously clairvoyant, that was the first impression I had, for his mind was a tightly closed fist, resisting my initial probing. He was aware of the touch, looking about with sudden alertness, all semblance of his relaxed posture gone. He peered out the window, but I knew he could not see me for I was standing in the shadows across the street.

He finished his drink, but he was fully alert, aware in the manner that prey often is. He was hesitant about leaving the relative bright safety of the coffee shop and so I had time to observe him further. I was not curious as to why he was interested in Julia; it didn’t matter one way or the other. What I wanted was for her to be left in peace.

“So kill him.” Lestat’s voice was seductive in my left ear. “He can’t stay in there forever.” He laughed then and the tone of his voice resonated in my belly. “Did I surprise you?”

I wound my arms about his neck. “You did, my love.” He kissed me lingeringly.

“He should be killed if only because he has distracted you from noticing my approach,” he said teasingly.

“Indeed,” I murmured, watching his profile as he turned his head to look into the coffee shop. “Unpardonable.”

“It was not what you had in mind?” 

“I had nothing in mind as to,” I told him. “And why are you following me?”

“I wanted to.” 

Pure Lestat, that answer. I was not put off that he had done so; he had not been about when I left the house and I had not gone far, anticipating that he would join me when he had concluded whatever business had taken him out in the first place.

“How did you find him, then?” Lestat asked, stepping off the banquette.

“Chance, only. Some of his control slipped, possibly because he was using his computer. I caught your name, you see.”

He smiled. “So. No death and destruction tonight? Ah, well. A warning, perhaps, to leave Julia in peace?”

Marchland had his laptop packed up and he stood by the window, staring up the street and down. He didn’t see us, blended in among the shadows.“A warning.” I agreed. “For now. “ 

Les tat, of all people, knew that I had little love for the Talamasca.

“May I do the honors?” He cocked his head toward the window and ran his tongue across his teeth.

“By all means. Not here, though. A surprise appearance when he believes himself safe.”

Lestat raised an appreciative eyebrow. “And to think, Louis, that I ever accused you of being dull.”

“You never believed that,” I murmured, gripping a fistful of his hair and pulling his head back with a good deal of force. His growl lapsed to a purr when I pushed him hard against the wall and ran my tongue across his jaw. He glanced sidewise at me.

“I might have, you know. A time or two.”

“Liar.” I licked his throat suggestively and he tightened his arms around my back.

“Oh, bite me, Louis.” He said, laughing as he bared his neck to me.

**(Narrative)**

“I’ll have the roasted mushroom salad for an appetizer and the wood grilled ,” Persephone told the waiter.

“Seafood gumbo and the beef tournedos,” Brian said. “And a bottle of the ’95 Médoc Château Margaux.”

“Excellent choice,” the waiter said appreciatively. 

Perry wondered if it was Brian’s choice of wine or Brian’s person that had exacted the comment. She smiled a little. “A wine connoisseur on top of everything else?” 

Brian shrugged. “Not really. I know the cellar here, though. It’s not really a seafood wine, but I think it’ll compliment the redfish.”

“No doubt.” Perry said. 

“I’m glad you decided to join me. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Why not?” Perry asked, sipping at the cocktail she’d ordered upon her arrival.

“Thought maybe you’d be busy.”

“You suck at evasive.” 

He grinned. “Not usually.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. You’re uncomfortable, though.”

“Maybe. I don’t usually go out with the ladies.”

“It’s not that, though, is it?”

He chuckled.“You’re pretty tense yourself, Miss Thing.”

“I guess we have a few things in common.”

“I guess.”

Perry looked across the table at him. She’d known Brian for several years, but it wasn’t until just recently that she’d thought much about what it must be like for him. Not that she felt sorry for him or anything, working for them. Still, she wondered if he found it difficult to have to keep so much to himself. God knew she did, and she was not at all in the same position as he was. “Is that why you invited me to dinner?”

“Full of questions, aren’t you?” He stared out the window across the Square.

“Well, yeah.”

Their eyes met and she took a breath. “Are you ever afraid?”

“Sometimes. Not as much as I used to be. What about you?”

“I’m afraid. Not so much of Louis, but Lestat, he’s just there sometimes. I feel like he’s testing me.”

”That’s because he is,” Brian said, sipping his neat whiskey. “And make no mistake, Louis is, too. He likes you, though. You must have done something along the line to impress him. He doesn’t interact with too many people.”

Perry looked down at the table, unsure of what to say. She was aware that Brian was wary and she thought she knew why. She was learning what it was like to entangle one’s life with them, these creatures that were immortal for all intents and purposes. Creatures that survived on the blood of human beings. When she raised her eyes to his, she was relieved to see empathy there.

“Catholic, aren’t you.” Brian said.

She laughed. “Well, yes. You, too?”

“With a name like Callahan? What else? My mother’s French-Canadian, by the way, so there was no avoiding it. Look. Unless you really buy all that stuff, you need to understand that what they do has nothing to do with you, even if you know about it.”

She nodded. “That’s how you deal, is it?

“I don’t have to deal. You aren’t talking about humans here. The law? You know how it is. Really, their sway isn’t so outrageous—all they ask is to be left in peace. In turn, they don’t make anything too obvious.”

“And in their own way they lend a hand?” Perry’s voice was brittle.

“You could say that. It’s nothing to do with the NOPD, though. Lestat has done it that way for a long time.” Brian looked at her. “You know what I mean. Choosing killers, many of them more brutal than we would like to think about. Louis is less inclined to pick and choose, I think. It’s probably good that he doesn’t need to feed so much anymore. The thing is, Perry, it’s part of the package.”

Perry raised her eyebrow, but she said nothing. Their waiter approached, bearing their appetizers.

“I think you’re rationalizing.” She said after the waiter left.

“It’s not rationalizing if it’s the truth, is it? If anyone’s rationalizing, I’m thinking it’s you. I don’t mean that to be harsh because I did the same thing at first.”

”And now?”

Brian shrugged. “It’s the way things are. And believe me, I know how that sounds.”

Perry took another sip of her drink. “So you’re saying it doesn’t matter how you feel about it?”

Brian smiled. “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying. I’m not a prisoner, you know."

“Are you telling me you think you have a choice?” She cocked her head curiously.

“I’m saying if I wanted to leave, I don’t think either of them would follow to haul me back.”

She laughed. “You really are good at avoiding direct questions, you know that?”

“And you are one of those people that picks around the edges of things.”

He raised his glass and she followed suit, clicking it to his and they set to their food. 

“How’s the salad?” Brian asked after a while.

“God—it’s the best thing I ever tasted.” She said. “Can I ask you something? I know we’re not exactly best buds, but I’m guessing neither of us has anyone else we can talk to about some things.”

“Shoot,” Brian said, stirring his gumbo. He didn’t look at her when he answered; he felt strange, oddly elated about talking to someone who he thought understand, yet at the same time reluctant. He’d held onto his secrets for a very long time.

“Are you close to Lestat?” 

Brian blinked. Of all the things he thought she would ask that had not entered his head.

“Close?”

“Yeah. I mean, he depends on you for a lot of things. You’ve been with them for a long time…”

“I never thought about it like that. I don’t think he’s close to anyone but Louis.”

“That’s crap. I’ve seen him talk to you at the meetings. He treats you like a friend.”

“That’s because Louis isn’t there.” Brian ate the last spoonful of his gumbo. He was thinking about the vial; the little drinks of Lestat’s blood that he’d been absorbing for the past few years. “He likes me well enough. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have kept me around all this time.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No.”

Their conversation drifted to other things as they ate their entrees and Brian found that he could relax, not having to guard every word that came out of his mouth. Perry was engaging and funny and intelligent and he ended up having a better time than he thought he would, even though the dinner out had been his idea. They shared Muriel’s excellent bread pudding between them and then stepped out to walk off the meal.

“How about we go for a drink or something?” Perry said as they walked up Chartres. “Maybe if I ply you with alcohol I can get you to talk.”

Brian laughed. “A drink would be great but all you need to do is ask me something. I’m not too used to talking about this stuff.”

“I don’t suppose that means you’ll answer every question, hmm?”

“Not like you aren’t in the circle, such as it is,” he said with a shrug. “But I guess it depends on what you ask. Let’s go back to my place. I don’t know that I want to talk about any of this in a bar. That okay with you?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said. “You really take it very seriously.”

Brian nodded. “Be stupid not to. Look at me. I barely got through high school. Got to New Orleans when I was twenty and drove for a limo service that’s out of business now. I got sent to 1127 Royal because they wanted a driver who spoke French. God knows why, since they both speak perfect English. Anyway, I picked them up, to bring them to the airport. Lestat requested me for another trip and then another, and then he just asked me if I would be their driver.”

Perry laughed. “Like you even thought of saying no!”

**(Lestat)**

He didn’t bite me. Not then, anyway. Louis followed his own agenda, as he always does.

“He lives across the Lake,” Louis murmured even as Marchland finally ventured forth from the coffee shop. “He feels safe there, I su[ppose. Another night, Lestat. Tomorrow or the next, it does not matter.” He ran his sharp nail down my carotid artery, his green eyes wide and dilated. “Your pulse is rapid, my love and your muscles are tense. Were you hunting?”

“Not when I found you. I believe I will, however. Will you join me?” I touched my brow to his.

“No, thank you. I will finish my walk and meet you at home presently.” He smiled then, a beautiful sight. His smile is not the rare phenomenon it once was, but it is always a special thing. The remark was his gentle rebuff and he locked his arms around my neck for a parting kiss. As he sauntered away he looked over his shoulder. “I shall be more inclined to bite when I have worked up an appetite, _mon amour_.” 

I stood rooted to the spot, moving only after he disappeared from view when he turned a corner. When I moved, I did so quickly, for Marchland had gotten far up the street and was at that moment unlocking his car. He started violently at my sudden appearance and I stayed the car door with my hand.

“You weren’t leaving were you? Surely not! Put that thing in the trunk.” I said, pointing to his laptop case. “I’m taking you for a drink, somewhere crowded to put you at your ease, yes?”

He stared at me for a full minute at the very least. 

“Edward? Are you there?” I said, impatiently. “Come on, man. It’s insulting, really, that you have so little regard for one of the subjects of inquiry.”

“I don’t drink.” He said. 

I shrugged. “You needn’t be so rude, you know. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Forgive me if I have trouble believing that,” he said. He appeared outwardly calm, but his heart hammered in his chest and all about him was the spicy, maddening scent of his adrenalized blood.

“Touché,” I said. “I can talk to you just as well right here. I have a question, if you would so oblige me?”

“Why not?” He said. He leaned back against his car.

“Why are you here? Surely your people have all the information on Louis that they could possibly need.”

He hesitated, and at that moment I caught a stray thought, clear and uncluttered. _:::he doesn’t know that Talbot took initiative:::_

That was all, but that was enough. I knew more about it than he did, apparently. 

“Just tying up loose ends,” he said, unaware of his slip. Without quite knowing why, I decided to keep his little nugget to myself.

“Loose ends. Well, then, let me explain something to you. Louis does not consider his remaining relatives to be ‘loose ends’. That feeling you had back at the coffee shop? You remember-- the one that told you it was possibly unsafe to step outside? It was right on target. You are not safe here.”

“Why bother telling me? Why not just kill me the way you killed your lawyer?”

Oh, a bold one. “That wasn’t me.” I said, taking a step toward him. He shrank back the slightest amount. “And it was, after all, a breach of loyalty. You will leave my city, Monsieur. You will have no further contact with the Fourniers and you will tell the Elders that I was feeling benevolent enough to give you—and them-- notice. I might not feel the same way if we are disturbed again. Do you understand?”

He nodded, licking his lips. “Can I ask you a question?”

I inclined my head.

“What harm is there in my research?”

“The research has already been done, yes? Go and read about it in your dusty basements. Ask Jeeves. Google it. I don’t care, just so you do it somewhere else.” I took his chin in one hand and applied a little pressure. “You said it so casually before, that little swipe about killing you. It might not be something you wish to say to me again. If I kill you it will not be pleasant.”

He staggered back against the car when I released him.   
“There now. “ I said, reaching to adjust his twisted shirt collar. He flinched back. “Have we reached an agreement?”

**(Louis)**

The courtyard behind our home is a good place for waiting and contemplation. The sultry heat does not cause me discomfort; rather, it is a welcome thing, sensual with moisture and alive with smells and sounds. The garden is an especially good place for fragrance, steeped in the scents of jasmine and rose, mint and Brugmansia and the pungent odor of artemisia.

Lestat’s mark is here of course. The ornate fountain in the center and the koi pond he’d wanted is set in one corner. The heavy, ghostly bodies of the fish pushed at the water, their mouths gaping, waiting to be fed. I obliged them, scattering crumbs of stale bread from the tin that Brian leaves in a niche in the wall. There is a bench by the pond and it’s as good a place as any to sit and wait for him.

He has gone after that man, that Talamascan. I am as certain of that as I am that he will come to me later, brimming with living blood and the urgent need to share it with me. Coupling, languid or urgent, is also a certainty, for to drown in him has always been my solace and my sacrament.

Lestat will not kill that man, that Marchland, but he will have a story for me, details of what was said and the man’s reactions. I will watch his animated face and hear his laughter and the details of the encounter will pass me by because the details don’t matter. I know the man will leave or be otherwise removed. To see my beloved caught up in the small drama of it all will make my mouth water and cause a familiar heat to pool at the base of my spine.

I love him so.

I was drawn from my reverie when I heard sounds from the carriageway, voices, and footsteps, altogether human and altogether identifiable. Brian, of course, and-- Persephone. A small surprise, that. I could not see the door in the wall that leads from the carriageway into this sanctuary, but it was easy to identify the sound of the old-fashioned long- barreled key turning in the lock followed by the low squeal of the hinges. It is a heavy cypress door, a thing that has survived fire and flood and many long years. I brought it here from another of the vacant properties we own on Toulouse. I spent a good deal of time there long ago.

“You mean he was waiting on the street when you came out? Why didn’t you say something to him?” 

Persephone sounded breathless, a result no doubt of keeping up with Brian’s long-legged stride coupled with the heat of the night.

“Seemed like a better idea to let him follow me. I wanted to see if he would approach me or what.”

“Did he?”

“No. He just trailed me around the Quarter until after sunset.” Brian chuckled but left it at that. They passed me where I sat without realizing I was there and climbed the steps to Brian’s porch, partially visible from where I was. The wicker chairs creaked as they both sat down.

“It just seems weird that those people sent someone to look around for Louis’ descendants. Don’t they already know all that?”

“I don’t know what they know or what they don’t know, but I think it’s odd, too. Especially since it’s not like any of it is a huge secret. You said it before; it’s all pretty much public record, though I guess it’d take a bit of researching and follow-up, with marriages and name changes and such. This guy is focused on that little girl for some reason, but I feel like there’s something else going on. Like I’m missing something.”

“Missing what?”

Persephone leaned forward in her chair, intensely curious. It occurred to me then that Brian must have felt some relief in being able to speak somewhat candidly to someone about some of the more arcane aspects of his own life.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t even really know why I feel that way except for there are always so many gaps in what I actually understand about what’s going on.”

“Couldn’t you just ask Lestat? You know, discuss it with him?”

“That depends. It’s knowing what to ask and when to just step back. It’s not as though they actually need anyone to look out for them, y’know. You could say I’m the detail guy, someone who makes it so they can move about more easily among the rest of us when they feel like it. I can ask anything I want, but my asking doesn’t guarantee an answer.”

“You can’t help it,” Persephone said. 

“Help what?”

“Looking out for them.”

“No, I can’t. And neither can you, huh? How about a beer?”

Perry nodded and he disappeared into the house. I studied her from where I sat. Lestat calls her ‘pretty little Perry’, partly because she is and partly to stick a pin or two, for he knows that she does draw my attention when I see her. I have always liked strong-minded women. He has warmed to her in spite of his outrageous possessiveness. Loyalty is important to him.

Persephone relaxed against the wide back of her chair and looked out at the shadowy garden. I caught her scent, earthy and luscious, overlaid with a light citrus perfume. Mortals and their living warmth, the rich scent of their blood; how they tantalize our senses all unknowingly. Even Brian does not realize just how close he has often come to his darkest wish.

He came back out with beer in a cooler of ice and he set it down between them. The crack and hiss of the cans being opened was followed by yet another scent, the bitter smell of fermented hops. They both drank deeply, throats working. 

“Good,” Perry said, setting her can on the low table. “Does Louis often have contact with his relatives?”

“A little. I think it’s pretty sporadic. I don’t pretend to know what either one of them does when they aren’t here.”

“Brian is too modest,” I said, approaching the steps to the porch. Perry took in a sharp breath at what must have seemed to her a very sudden appearance. Brian only blinked; he is more accustomed to our abrupt comings and goings. “But he is reticent to say too much. We value our privacy, you see, and he has kept his counsel with us very close for a long while." I leaned back against the corner post. 

“There may be more to that man’s prying into the lives of some of the people in my family, distantly related though they are, but that does not concern me. They have been around, that order of watchers for a longer time than I have. I care little about their machinations and their prying when it concerns me, except that it will put Lestat in a peevish mood. It is a different thing altogether when it causes disruption in the lives of people who know nothing about why they are being scrutinized.“ 

I stepped lightly up onto the porch rail and crouched down, balanced there on the balls of my feet. “And there is something more to the interest in Julia Fournier, something that suggests more than passing interest. I only realized her existence myself bare months ago, you see.”

I ignored Perry’s awe-struck look and Brian’s obvious need to inundate me with questions for I found myself focusing sharply upon part of what had been nagging at me. It was as though I had finally caught a glimpse of something formless and I saw it dancing there just out of the range of my vision.

“Have you seen her?” I asked Perry abruptly. She shook her head. “Brian?”

“No, I haven’t.” 

“Ah. Well, if you do, you will see that she bears some resemblance to me. I cannot see what part that would play, if any, in their interest, those Talamascan agents. She is very like the child in the portrait. Very like her.” The formless image danced further away.

“Portrait?” Perry said in a small voice.

“It is returned to the vault. Brian can show you, if you like.” I said dismissively. I wanted to leave, then, wanted the quiet of the garden to try and catch hold of what seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had come.

**(Narrative)**

Marchland staggered back against the car when Lestat released him.

“There now.” Lestat extended his hand and Marchland flinched back, but the vampire merely straightened his twisted collar. Lestat’s manner suggested repressed mirth and Marchland suddenly understood that Lestat was enjoying his discomfort. “Have we reached an agreement?”

Marchland stared at him mutely, his heart pounding.

“Monsieur?” Lestat prompted.

“Yes. We have an agreement.” Marchland said, appalled at the weakness in his own voice. He realized that he was lucky to be alive. What had possessed him to goad this creature? He could not read Lestat’s expression. What laughter he had glimpsed moments before had fled and the vampire’s smooth face was devoid of any readable expression. 

Marchland straightened up and stepped away from the car in an effort to retain some semblance of control. The still blankness left Lestat’s face replaced by a ferocious grin, deep with teeth. 

“While I have your attention, I would also ask you to pass the message to your superiors. Leave the child alone and do not approach Brian Callahan again. He may not realize he has been sounded out, but I am more aware of what passes in my city than you might think. _Bon soir_ , Edward.” Lestat sketched a little salute and moved back toward Esplanade at a leisurely pace. “Call Ambrose now. He should know that the assignment is over.” He called over his shoulder.

When Lestat was out of sight, Edward leaned heavily against the car, willing his heart to slow down. His mind raced, turning over his limited options. Would Lestat check to see if he left? Edward had no qualms about moving out of the spare apartment he kept in Mandeville and moving to another place nearby, but he had no real idea if Lestat would be able to find him easily or if he would actually bother to try.   
If he called Ambrose and informed him of what had just happened there was no doubt in his mind that the Order would immediately remove him from New Orleans; he did not want this to happen. After Lestat’s warning, he did not intend to go anywhere near the child again, but there were other avenues he wished to explore. 

Relatively little was known about the Vampire Louis beyond what he himself had revealed in the now-infamous book. Edward had reason to believe that the book contained exaggerations as well as outright fabrications and little of real substance to quantify the life Louis had led when he was a mortal man. How to divine the nuggets of truth? Edward thought that he might be able to tell by seeking out familial connections and he didn’t think he could do that in London or Amsterdam and never mind the resources available to the Talamasca. He got into his car and headed toward the Causeway.

**(Lestat)**

“I brought you something to eat.” I announced, pushing a pile of folders aside and placing the grease-spotted bag on the corner of the desk.

Brian looked away from the computer screen, blinking owlishly up at me. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.” 

His stomach made a singularly strange gurgling sound. I shrugged. “You need to eat something from the sound of it. It’s one of those dreadful oyster po’boys that you like so well.” 

He took it from me happily. The smell of grease and fried oysters was overpowering and I stepped back a bit, watching bemusedly as he took a wolfish bite. He demolished the sandwich with several more prodigious bites and put the remnants in the brown bag. 

“That hit the spot,” he said. The satisfied look on his face made me smile. 

“You ate like a starving man. When was your last meal?”

He shrugged as though it was of no consequence. “I’m always hungry for oysters.” He said.

“I never tasted oysters. I ate mussels when I first went to Paris, though. I remember that I liked them, even though they looked horrid.”

“Do you miss food?” Brian asked with a moony smile. I bared my teeth in a wide grin.

“As if you didn’t know the answer to that. No, I don’t miss food, really. I wasn’t human for all that long. But I haven’t come to talk about food, you know.”

“Oh? What, then?” 

The Talamascan. That Marchland.” I said. “I spoke to him last night.”

Brian regarded me mildly. “Is there anything I need to see to?”

I laughed. “No. Not this time, anyway. He’s still breathing. At least he was when I left him. I told him it would be in his best interest to leave.” 

“Do you think he will?”

“He’ll leave the apartment he is in.” I said. “He thinks that will be enough. Maybe it will be—if he stays away from Louis’ little Julia. By the by, Brian, I have found out that you have been approached by the Order several times.”

“What?” His eyes widened and he looked at me a little uneasily.

“Not to worry,” I assured him. “You may not have known, but they didn’t learn anything from you.“

I took his face between my two hands and pressed my forehead to his. “I do appreciate your loyalty, _mon cher_.” I murmured. He shivered and leaned toward me, one hand brushing my arm as though he wanted to take it, to pull me to him. He didn’t, but he did let his fingers linger on my upper arm.

After a few moments, he regained his equanimity. “When did it happen?” 

“Ah---there’s a question.” I said, with a smile. “And I have some answers for you, I think.” I handed him a sheaf of paper with a flourish. “Printouts of some files of theirs.”

“You hacked into their system?” He asked, delighted.

“Easy as pie,” I answered.

He looked at me doubtfully.

“Well. Maybe not so easy.” I admitted. “But I did manage to breach their safeguards when push came to shove. Read it when you have the time—it’s nothing that can’t wait.”

Has Louis read it?” He asked, rifling through the pages.

I smiled. “No. He has little interest in the reasons the Order may have for taking a closer look at him. He just wants them to stay clear of us.”

“And his descendants,” Brian said thoughtfully. He tapped the stack of paper on the desk and put them aside.

“Just so. What is it?” 

His head was cocked slightly to the right and he was chewing his lower lip, a sure sign he wanted to ask me something. “Louis keeps track of his descendants more or less, doesn’t he?”

“He does, yes. Sometimes he will make himself known to one or another of them, but generally he just makes sure they are provided for. You know all this.”

“The other night he said that he had only just found out about this child a short while ago. Had he not been keeping track of her mother?”

“It’s not as though he is involved with their everyday lives, Brian. The child is seven or thereabouts. Seven years ago we were rediscovering one another.”

Brian nodded and I realized that I had only confirmed what he’d surmised. “When he saw her at St. Louis’ that first time, it really threw him, didn’t it? I mean because she looks so much like his brother’s child.”

I crossed the small room to sit in one of the leather chairs by the bookshelves. “What is your point?” I asked. I was not feeling so much impatient as I was curious to know what he was driving at.

“Well, you know how he was, Lestat. Really distracted—he didn’t come home a few times, didn’t even want to discuss it with you at first. Sort of like there is something more. And then, this Marchland comes along, snooping around and he gets to Tracy Harvey.” He gave me a significant look. “We know how that turned out. It’s not really like Louis to act so-- precipitously. So what is it about that little girl, Lestat? Why is Louis so preoccupied? And why has Marchland come into the picture just at this time?”

“He isn’t preoccupied, he’s focused. As for Marchland, I would venture that he is also focused—not only on the child but on Louis’ family and Louis himself.”

"But why now?” Brian persisted. “It’s like there’s more going on, you know? I didn’t think so before, when we first found out he was here. They’ve been around you in one way or another on and off for most of your lives. It’s the timing. Things are quiet—you two have been flying under the radar, so to speak. No challenges, no rock and roll, no taking over the world. So what is it?”

I thought about it. The child seemed precocious but not out of the ordinary, not someone that the Talamasca would be watching. “You noted his interest in genealogy yourself, didn’t you?”

He fidgeted a bit and then took a sharp little breath. “What if his interest in Louis has something to do with getting to you somehow?”

I often underestimate how clever Brian is. I also underestimate the intensity of his particular focus.

“There may be something to that.” I allowed. “However, I don’t think that Mr. Marchland is behaving according to the rules the Order has in situations such as the one he has placed himself in. He should have left immediately and reported to his superiors. He should have done it after being confronted. He has not and so I wonder what loop he has been left out of.”

I left it at that. There are things that Brian does not know about and more to the Talamasca these days than mere watching. The time may have come to give him what he would call a ‘heads up’, for his own protection.

“Can you show me how you got into their files?” He asked.

“Going to do a little digging?”

”A lot of digging. At least until they figure out I’m in there.”

”They won’t.” I told him.

I’d give him the heads up—but I thought perhaps I would wait to see what he might uncover on his own and how he would interpret whatever he came across.

Next: Chapter Thirteen


	13. The Song Remains The Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are revealed even as the plot thickens.

**~Chapter Thirteen~**

**(Louis)**

In spite of the lighting above the front door, the front yard of the Fournier’s Garden District home teemed with the shadows of the riotous foliage that grew around the house. Nothing was hidden from me in those shadows; my eyes pierce darkness perfectly well. A gust of wind shivered the branches of the overgrown podocarpus and lantana and something shiny winked in the fitful light. Bending at the waist, I saw a scatter of toys behind the screen of shrubbery, a doll, sitting with her back against the lattice, a tiny china tea set, a plush cat with jeweled green eyes. Julia’s secret place. Most children have one, or sometimes more than one. I rang the bell and Patrice Fournier opened the door, ushering me into her home with a gracious smile.

“I’m so glad you were able to come,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my husband, Tom Fournier. Tom, this is Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

"The long lost cousin!” Tom said with bluff heartiness. He took my hand in an overly firm grip, a thing that many American men do in order to establish some sort of dominance in any given situation. I returned the pressure and he released my hand. “Damned if you aren’t the spit of Pat’s father.”

I blinked at the observation and then remembered to smile, to speak. 

“Some of the family traits are quite strong.” I agreed. I handed him the bottle of wine that Brian had suggested I bring along and he took it, eyes widening slightly at the vintage. 

“Come on in and meet our other guests.” Patrice said warmly.

I did so, mingling with the dozen or so guests and passing conversation with them as I have so often watched Lestat do. I do not find such interactions anywhere near as entertaining as he does, but I was surprised to find among the guests a couple that were quite able with conversation and wit. The pair were refreshingly uninterested in the boringly mundane question of what I ‘did for a living’, instead discoursing on an art exhibition they had seen in Paris just two weeks earlier. I had not come for a party, of course. I had come to speak with Julia, to see what sort of child she was and perhaps to understand why she had captured my attention, beyond the fact of her startling resemblance to my brother’s child, gone these many, many years.

It had been easy enough to arrange to meet Patrice Fournier and easier still to coax an invitation to her home. My claim of being a relative needed little proof beyond my face and some mind-nudging to help her past the otherness of my appearance. This particular trick is one that Lestat was always at pains to remind me of, coaching me to use it when we were out and about, making the rounds of the clubs he enjoyed or sitting in coffee shops during rainstorms. It works wonderfully well in situations such as this and I made a note to mention it to him later on.

“Here’s my Princess!” Tom Fournier boomed from where he stood across the room. His voice was over-loud, his face flushed and his eyes bright with an alcoholic shine. Beyond his wide shoulders, I saw Julia coming down the stairs, holding hands with a tall black woman. Her face was set and solemn, hardly changing when the woman released her hand and Fournier swept her up into his arms. She did not struggle, but a small grimace made her discomfort and embarrassment very clear. He made the rounds with her, introducing her to several people in the room. She smiled dutifully at each of them and then Patrice went and whispered something to her husband. He put the child down and she laid her head briefly against her mother’s hip. Patrice’s brittle expression did not escape my notice.

The couple I had been talking to wandered off to sample the hors d’oeurves and Patrice came toward me with her daughter. “Julia, this is Louis—he is your cousin, come here all the way from France.” Julia had been gazing at the toes of her slippers, but at her mother’s prompting she lifted her head to look at me with solemn eyes. I smiled at her and after a beat she smiled back.

“I am very pleased to meet you, Julia.” I said. “I wonder if I can ask you to help me with something?”

Julia looked briefly at her mother, and Patrice nodded.

“What?” she asked. 

“I am very thirsty, but I don’t remember where the beverages are. Do you think you could show me?”

“I know where the drinks are. There’s punch, too. Do you like punch?”

”I do indeed.”

“I’ll show you, then,” she said. She slipped her warm hand into mine and tugged a little. “This way.” She didn’t say anything as we waited our turn at the punch bowl and when we reached it, she carefully dipped the ladle and filled two cups. 

“We can sit there,” she said, pointing to a settee that was out of the dining room where we stood. She walked ahead of me, her nightgown belling out from her waist in a way that pierced my heart. She set her cup down on the table and seated herself, patting the spot beside her.

“Are you really my cousin?” she asked. I hesitated for I had seen something in her eyes—a difference, an otherness. She watched me calmly and after a moment the feeling that I was looking at someone else was entirely gone.

“More like an uncle, I should think.”

”I saw you at church. I didn’t know you were my uncle, though.” She looked up at me and smiled shyly. “I thought you were my guardian angel.”

I smiled back at her. “Nothing so important as your guardian angel, I’m afraid. I should like to be your friend, though.” She nodded and reached for her cup. Once again I noted the ragged fingernails, bitten to the quick. The tips of her fingers looked red and painfully swollen.

“Then the other one is not an angel either? I saw him on the gallery and I drew his picture, but he was gone before I could give it to him.”

“Who did you see, _chérie_?” I asked. My eyes were drawn again and again to the birthmark on her neck. How was it possible? 

“You know. The other one. He’s like you, isn’t he? You were just thinking about him. Don’t you like the punch?”

I sipped it, unable to really taste anything though it smelled good, fruity and cool. “Yes, he’s like me.” I said simply. Distracted as I had been, she had plucked the thought from my mind as easily as I had earlier done to her mother. She seemed unconscious of the fact that she had done anything at all extraordinary.

“It’s time for bed, Julia.” It was the tall woman who had brought her downstairs earlier. “I’m Chantelle.” She said to me, “Julia’s nanny.”

“Louis.” I said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it once. She smiled at me, but her brows were knitted with formless unease. I didn’t try to dissuade her of her instinct, glad that she was alert enough to realize that something might be amiss. Glad that she was the one that looked after the child.

“Good night, Julia. It was very nice to meet you.” 

Julia turned. “Can I say a secret in your ear?”

I lowered myself back onto the settee and she put her small hand on the back of my neck. Her breath stirred my hair. “I know you’re pretending and I won’t tell them you’re the angel from the Cathedral.” She hugged me around the neck, then and I kissed her on the nose. “Good night, Uncle Louis,” she said over her shoulder. There, in her eyes, that otherness again as Chantelle led her away.

**~~~~~**

Riding the streetcar afterward, I thought about it. In the short time I had spent with Julia I had noted several things; mannerisms that were eerily familiar, the troubled expression that I had once seen reflected in Juliette’s green eyes. Her smmoth, dusky skin and that tiny mark on her neck. The way she had picked up a thought from me with such unconscious ease. That had been a surprise and it begged another question. Had her talent been noted by Marchland or any of the others of that Order? And what of her father and the expression in Patrice’s eyes? In Julia’s? I resolved to make another visit in the near future.

Turning my face into the rush of warm air from the open window, I tried to concentrate on getting home, getting to Lestat. It was his heat, his light that would negate the chilly remoteness that had begun seeping into my restless mind.

**(Lestat)**

Louis was far away again, focused, but not on the present. He came home to me agitated and needful, unwilling to speak, wanting only to be used roughly, to receive savage, bloody kisses that drove his inner pain back so that he might begin to recollect himself and his focus. He fell asleep in my arms well before dawn, his physical wounds already healed or nearly so, but his mental anguish only mitigated.

I lay still in the darkness, listening to his breathing and turning over what I might have done differently with Marchland. Louis had said nothing about what had happened and the glimpses afforded in our blood sharing gave me very little to go on, for what I had seen was fragmented and disjointed, quite unlike our usual mind-touch. Joined in blood we are able to pierce the barrier of silence that separates maker and fledgling. The sharing involves a good deal of trust and as such, I did not pry. I knew that when he was ready he would tell me.

I had not taken Marchland’s presence seriously enough in the context of what had already been going on with Louis and his discovery of the child. Louis’ silence had broken for a while and I had taken Marchland’s presence as an amusement rather than a problem. That had been a mistake. I have learned much in the past decade, possibly more than I allowed myself to learn in the previous two centuries. Louis’ patience and love pushed me in this direction and letting go of my fear has freed me in ways that I could not have realized earlier. Louis has spoken often of my redemption but he sees it in a light that is alien to me. I do not believe in heaven or hell or angels or devils; Louis is my angel and all the heaven I need. As for hell, well, we have been through that and perhaps we still have some way to go before we are free from it altogether.

Louis shivered, mumbling in his sleep and turning his face into my neck. I felt the stab of his fangs and then his body relaxed and melted against mine. I twisted my head and he sank his teeth more deeply into my flesh. He had chosen to keep his pain to himself for now, but that did not mean I would stand by and let the Order insinuate themselves into our lives or the lives of those we cared for. Their communication to me a while back had amused me at the time but I had begun to feel that they should perhaps understand that they had very little idea of what havoc I was able to wreak. They did not really understand what enmity could be, but they would. Yes, indeed.

**(Brian)**

“Thanks for coming along with me. I figured we’d be able to talk without any sort of interruptions this way, you know?” Perry said as she navigated her way onto North Rampart.

Perry had called me just after noon to ask if I’d take a ride with her out to Darrow. Curious, I’d agreed.“No phones and no one around to see you talking to me.” I said.

“Exactly. “ 

“Why Darrow?”

“My grandmother lives there. I have some things I wanted to bring out to her.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“I was born in Bayou Blue, and if you start singing, I'll pop you one,” zhe said with a smile. “How about you?”

“Boston. “

”You’re a long way from home.” She turned the air conditioning up a little.

“We just left my home.” I told her.

“I guess we did. Anyway—I have a few things to talk to you about. First thing is Gerry; he’s been asking me a lot of questions about Tracy. He knows that Wendy saw her with Louis.”

”He probably knows what happened to her, then. Have you said anything?”

“Not a word. He’s suspicious, though.”

“Huh. Tempting fate or something. Sounds like he’s looking for some attention. He might not like the sort of attention this could bring, though. Lestat is a little edgy lately.”

“Maybe. It gets worse, though. He was in his office for part of the morning with the door closed. An appointment, I figured, even though I didn’t see anything on his morning schedule. I didn’t see who it was until the guy left.”

“Let me guess. Marchland.”

“You got it. I’m glad you showed me that picture of him or it never would have occurred to me because Gerry called him Mr. Middleton.“

“No idea what he was there for?”

“No, but Gerry was pretty smug the rest of the morning. I had the afternoon off anyway—I really did plan to go see MawMaw, you know? I thought you should know, though, so you could tell them.”

“You could have told them yourself.” I pointed out.

“It seems better this way. Lestat makes me nervous.”

I nodded. “There’s a chance he’ll lose his temper. Like I said, he’s been edgy.”

“Well, then maybe you should wait until he’s settled down a little.”

“No way. It’s not a good idea to keep anything from him once you know it. And he’s never really ‘settled down’ anyway.”

“That’s why I wanted you to tell them. I’m a little out of my depth.”

“You get used to that.” I said. Perry smiled then and seemed to relax. I myself was not feeling at all relaxed at the idea of telling Lestat that Marchland had yet to vacate the area. It was anyone’s guess what sort of mood he would be in when he awakened.

Lestat had not gotten around to showing me how he’d accessed the Talamasca files and his brief words the previous night had put me on the alert. Louis, he’d told me, had been to see Julia Fournier and her parents and since then he’d kept to himself. It was the last part that had me worried because when Louis kept to himself, Lestat got twitchy.

“You’re worried.” Perry said after a while.

“Maybe a little bit. Hey—slow down here.”

“What?”

“There.” I pointed. “See the chain across that dirt track? Pull over.”

She did, looking askance at me.

“Is your grandmother expecting you at any set time?”

“No. I just said I’d be there in the afternoon. Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on. It’s just something I think you’d be interested in seeing.” I got out of the car and leaned in to look at her.

“I’ll let the chain down. Park the car out of sight up there.”

She looked speculatively at me for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay. If you say so.”

I hooked the chain back across the track after she pulled past and after she parked the car we slogged through the vines and high weeds until we came to shade of the first in the line of live oaks extending ahead in a long alleé. A few of the trees were skeletal, but most of them were still living, snaking their long arms to twine together in their double line and extending newer limbs out across the overgrown lane. The trees were thickly festooned with Spanish moss and the long track beneath was littered with leaf mould.

“What is this place?” Perry asked as we passed into the deepening shadows.

“Can’t you guess?”

She gave me an exasperated look. “If I could guess, I would.”

“It’s what’s left of Pointe du Lac.”

“Shut up!”

I grinned. “You shut up.”

“I had no idea it was along this road.”

I showed her what remained of the foundations, the charred cypress timbers still intact even after so long. She poked around in the crumbing kitchen house, peering at the wide fireplace and the floor, green with vines and moss.

“What’s that over there?” She asked when she came out. She was pointing at the shell of the oratory.

”That was the oratory. The family cemetery is beyond it. Do you want to have a look?”

Instead of answering she began walking. She wandered in the cemetery, reading the names and the antique dates. “It’s very clean.” She said, running her hand over one of the columns on the marble mausoleum. “Who comes to whitewash? Louis?”

“No. I’ve been doing it since he showed me this place. I cleaned it up a little and I come to paint on All Saint’s Day. Not the marble, of course, but the others. I have no family here, so I figured I could look after this old place.”

“Does Louis know?”

“If he comes out here he does. He’s never mentioned it.”

When we got underway again, she was quiet, digesting what she’d seen. I understood. Seeing that place makes a person understand the weight of years, just how long two centuries actually is. Louis had a family once. These were some of the people he had loved. Louis had been human once. 

“Thanks for bringing me," she said after a while. “It’s so strange to think that this child, this Julia is a part of his family. What is that like? To see the people you know live and die? To see your family come and go, over and over and over. How can he bear it?” Her voice caught.

“He has Lestat.” I said. “They have each other and that’s what makes them able to bear it.”

“Oh my God.” She turned her head I saw the shine of tears in her dark eyes. “I just never thought about all of it. You know?”

“I know.”

“And this Marchland, Middleton, whatever. He’s spying on that little girl,” she said. I heard the outrage in her tone.

“That’s what they do. ‘We Watch. And We Are Always There’, remember?”

She nodded slowly. “Well, then. They get just what’s coming to them, don’t they?”

“Just what’s coming to them.” I agreed.

**~~~~~**

Emmaline LeCompte was a no-nonsense woman with a tough, wiry little body and a halo of white hair on her head. She sat us down and filled us to bursting on seafood gumbo and boudin and butterbeans, all the while keeping up lively conversation and asking Perry any number of questions about how she was getting on _en ville_. The affection between them was obvious and listening to their easy banter made me see how different my life was from the people around me. It was the sort of introspection I don’t usually subject myself to. Aside from my younger brother, my own family had little to say to me beyond the stiff formality of thank-yous when I sent them money or called to see how they were doing. Seeing honest affection between family members didn’t depress me or anything like that, but it made me feel alien, as though I were acting out a scene in a play.

Perry picked up on the shift in my mood and she stood up. “We better be getting back, Maw. Brian works at night and I don’t want him to be late.”

“Course not.” Emmaline said firmly. “I’m glad you came along, Brian. It’s nice to meet one of Persephone’s friends. You just wait a minute now and I’ll put up some food for you to bring back. You could use a little feedin’, you.”

I knew better than to protest and not long after Perry and I each had a sack of Tupperware containers laden with food to load into the trunk of her car. Emmaline gave me a friendly hug and commanded me to come back and see her again. She stood on her porch and waved us off as we drove away from her little house.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a long time.” I said after she was out of sight. “Your grandmother’s great.”

“Yeah, she’s the best. You got pretty quiet after you ate. I thought maybe you were worried about getting back.”

“My night job and all.” I said with a grin.

“Right,” she said without smiling. “That’s all it was, right? You want to get back early?”

“Sure. What else?”

“Will you tell them about Gerry and Marchland?”

“If I see either of them, I will.”

She drove in silence for a time and I waited for her to say what I knew she was thinking. After a while, she did. “Do you think something will happen to Gerry?”

“Maybe. It depends on what he did or did not tell Marchland, I guess. Listen, Perry, if you can’t deal with this, you need to step back right away. They won’t hold it against you, you know.” I looked steadily at her profile. “Louis won’t. The thing is, if you tell me something like this, I can’t keep it from them. And if you know things like this and you continue to have contact with them, you can’t do it, either.“

She nodded thoughtfully and I could see she was thinking it through, trying to reason through all the angles. I knew how she felt; stepping back sounds easy. “I can deal with it,” she said at last.

**~~~~~**

It was dusk when we reached New Orleans and my cell phone rang as we were passing Harrah’s.

“Where are you?” Lestat demanded peevishly.

“A few minutes away. I’ll be there shortly.”

" _Je serai dans le salon_.” He closed the connection.

Perry glanced at me and I tried on a reassuring smile. “Time to clock in, I guess.”

“You won’t mind if I just drop you off?” she asked with a self-deprecating snort.

“Nah. He sounds impatient, so he has something on his mind. And the thing about Gerry? I’ll tell him, but trust me on this point. He would have found out anyway, one way or another."

**(Lestat)**

I tossed the phone on the desk and went back to the bedroom. Louis regarded me from the bed with half-lidded eyes. “What has aroused your ire, my love?” The teasing note in his voice went a considerable way in easing my slight annoyance.

“Any other night Brian would have been sitting right in the office. Tonight he is nowhere to be found.”

”Weren’t you just speaking to him on the phone?” He pushed the sheets down and stretched languorously.

“You know what I mean.” I said, admiring the long line of his thigh. I sat on the bed beside him.

“You are most dictatorial. Surely he is on his way back here as we speak?” 

“He is. I find, however, that the matter I wished to discuss with him no longer seems so urgent.”

“And why is that?” He drew me down and kissed my nose.

“You are in better spirits tonight, Louis.” I said in an effort to deflect his question.

“I have had a good deal of attention lavished upon my every whim and time to put my thoughts into some perspective. I do appreciate your patience, _mon couer_. After you have finished your business with Brian I would like to ride with you on that monstrous motorcycle. Is that agreeable to you?” He flicked his tongue across my bottom lip.

“What a question! Most agreeable.” 

Of course he was not to be deflected. “What is it you wanted to talk to him about?” 

“I had planned on going out for a while this evening, thinking that you might again wish to sleep a while.”

“Oh, yes?” His eyes held a glint of humor. 

I inclined my head. “Yes. However, my plan has now changed and so it’s no longer important.” 

Louis pushed at me to move and rose from the bed. “I’ll get dressed and you can find out where Brian had the temerity to be when you so urgently needed to speak with him.”

As if on cue, I heard the front door open and close followed by Brian’s light steps on the stairs. “At last.” I said from the top of the stairs in as peremptory a tone as I could muster. He followed me into the parlour and moved across the room to open the doors to the balcony. It was at this point that I noted that he was jumpy with nerves; not quite anxious, but eager to talk. He didn’t launch into anything just then, however. 

“What did you need me for?” he asked. 

“I had it in mind to take you with me to Mandeville to see if our curious friend has vacated his residence, but it will have to wait.”

He smiled a little. “That was fast. I only talked to you about ten minutes ago.”

“Priorities, _cher_. Where had you gotten to? You are generally at home when we awaken.”

“Perry called me earlier this afternoon and I took a ride with her to her grandmother’s in Darrow.”

“Why should you wish to do that?” I asked, somewhat distracted by the various sounds I heard emanating from the bedroom. After several long moments, I noticed that he had not answered, and I turned to look at him. He wore a familiar look of fascinated longing, but when he caught my eye it prompted him to answer.

“She had something she wanted to tell me. Something to tell you, really, but you make her nervous.”

I smiled a little at that. “And what had pretty little Perry to say?” 

“She saw Marchland at the office today. He had a meeting with Gerry.” His light tone had changed. “Gerry called him by the name of Middleton, but I’d shown her the picture from his driver’s license and she recognized him.”

“Did he, now?” I said mildly. “How very interesting. Perhaps a visit to Monsieur Blancmange is in order. Did Perry have anything else to add?”

“No. She didn’t hear anything. She didn’t even know who was in the office until after their meeting was over with. There was no notation on his appointment calendar and she wouldn’t have recognized that name in any case. “

“Of course.” I said, digesting this new bit of information. “It is, of course, most inconvenient of Gerry to contemplate betrayal—ah! Louis, my love. Are you ready?”

“I am. What’s this about Gerry?”

“I shall fill you in on the bitter details.” I told him, running a hand down his leather-clad hip.

“Are you going there now?” Brian asked.

“Why?”

“It’s just that we don’t know what he said or didn’t say, you know--”

I quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you held him in any regard. Be assured I will give him his say when I decide to bring the issue up with him.”

Louis stalked up beside Brian and stood quite close to his shoulder. He snaked an arm about Brian’s waist and pulled him close so that they were standing hip to hip. “Lestat! He has no regard whatsoever for Gerry. It’s Persephone he is concerned about. Isn't that right, Brian?” He licked Brian’s ear playfully. 

Brian is a very good looking man but, suffused as he was with Louis’ sudden and unexpected attention, he looked quite beautiful. He nodded in answer to Louis’ question, unable to speak for the moment.

“In fact, “Louis continued, “I think that perhaps Brian has had intimate acquaintance with the fabled Green Monster as a result of our erstwhile tryst with Monsieur Blancmange.”

“Did you really?” I asked, regarding him curiously. His skin flushed gorgeously and Louis, quite unconsciously, bared his teeth. I felt a stab of lust and Brian swayed a little. I have noticed that he is quite attuned to such charged situations.

“He is only human, after all.” Louis sighed. “ _Pauvre petit_.”

“You don’t want to be the bunny, Brian. Trust me.” I said.

Louis’ nostrils flared “Indulging in the local cuisine today, yes? Very pungent. Have you finished with Lestat? I find myself impatient tonight.” Louis said, his mouth close to Brian’s ear.

“Yes, I’m finished.” Brian said hoarsely.

“ _Très bon_.” Louis said, running a shining nail down Brian’s pulsing carotid artery. “I will get the Harley and meet you out front, Lestat.” He left the room and Brian abruptly sat down on the divan.

He looked up at me and laughed shakily. “Damn.” 

“Indeed.” I smiled back. “You look dizzy.”

“I’ll be fine. You better go. Louis seems to be in a take-charge sort of mood.”

I heard the motorcycle roar into life. “So it would appear.” I said, placing my hands on his shoulders. He looked up into my eyes. “Your little taste is on the armoire in our bedroom.” I murmured, brushing my lips across his cheek. “Don’t wait up.”

**(Narrative)**

After work, Gerry stopped at St. Joe’s Bar on Magazine for a drink to steady his nerves. He elbowed his way through the after-work crowd to the back bar where the crush of bodies was somewhat less suffocating and ordered himself a double Patrón Silver and lime. Gerry’s earlier meeting with Edgar Middleton had filled him with a fearful sort of exhilaration. He was aware that he was playing with something more volatile than simple fire; his meeting with Middleton had confirmed his suspicions about Tracy Harvey and filled in at least some of the blanks as to what may have led to her disappearance. The bartender brought his drink and Gerry knocked it back immediately, handing her a twenty dollar bill and asking for another drink.

The heat from the alcohol in his stomach calmed him somewhat and he glanced at the windows, gauging the light. He had some time before sunset, time he needed to think about how he might approach Lestat about Middleton and his questions. There had been little beating around the bush; Middleton had knowledge of Gerry’s encounter with Lestat and said it just that baldly, referring to Lestat with the oddly honorific title of The Vampire Lestat. Middleton had explained his contact with Tracy and advanced his misgivings about her disappearance. When Gerry had pointed out that such a disappearance may not have happened had Middleton not approached her in the first place, he was given a rather impassive statement of intent from the Order that Middleton claimed to represent.

Gerry had asked some questions of his own, ones that he’d thought were quite penetrating at the time, but now, some hours later, he could not seem to remember exactly what he’d asked, nor could he recall any answers even though he did remember Middleton speaking at some length to him. Had he said anything of significance to Middleton? That was the question of the day, really. He had debated calling Brian after Middleton left his office, thinking he might have some advice or insight but in the end had decided against it. Affable he might be, but Gerry was smart enough to know that Brian’s loyalty lay in one direction only and since he was unsure of the situation himself, he kept his counsel.

There was one name that Middleton had asked him about that stayed with him—Fournier. Did he know anyone with that name? The name was familiar to him, but he didn’t tell Middleton that, merely saying that he didn’t know anyone called Fournier. His second drink arrived and Gerry sipped this one slowly, letting the burn cover and then numb his tongue. His logical mind told him that there wasn’t any way that Lestat would know, but his instincts, rusty as they were, said something different. The second drink went a long way in allowing him to pay attention to his instincts for a change. He wanted to go to Lestat and explain the events before he found out some other way and perhaps got the wrong idea. He signaled the bartender.

“Another one?” She asked with a smile.

“Yes, please. And—do you have a phone book?” She went to the register and rummaged around beneath it for a moment and then emerging with a dog-eared phone directory.

“Thanks.” He said. He found the F’s and squinted over the names until he found the listings for Fournier. There were a dozen or so, and one name seemed familiar. Thomas Fournier. The Garden District address made his name click into place; he was a lawyer, a partner in a firm in the Central Business District. Gerry had attended a meeting with him once, representing a client. He recalled Tom Fournier as one of those hearty, sportsman types. He’d had fishing trophies on the walls of his office along with a photograph of a large fishing craft. He couldn’t think why Middleton would be asking for this particular person, but then, he had no way of knowing what connections Lestat might have with any given person. It didn’t matter, he supposed. He would go to Lestat and tell him about the visit. 

When he reached for his glass, he saw that his hand trembled.

**(Louis)**

I gunned the engine when I saw the front door open and even through that ear-splitting roar, I heard him chuckling as he took a seat behind me. As I pulled away from the curb he pressed himself against my back and spoke into my ear. “Brian said you were in a take-charge sort of mood.” He lifted my hair and licked the nape of my neck.

There are times when I understand Lestat’s liking for this machine. The solid weight of it, the power and speed and the specific responsiveness of it. It does not feel altogether like a machine at all, especially when careening through the night with Lestat laughing delightedly behind me.We rode out of the city and because he was enjoying the ride, I took a circuitous route that eventually brought us to the ruins of the place where I spent my mortal life. Lestat got off the bike and looked around. 

“This is the last place I thought we’d end up tonight,” he said. I shrugged and dismounted, leaning the bike against a tree in lieu of using the kickstand.

“It’s quiet here. I have some things I want to tell you and it seemed like the right place.”

“I have not come here since the night of the fire,” he said reflectively. He walked toward the moon-washed cemetery and after a moment, I caught up with him. He took my hand.

Until recently, I had not been out here very much either. I brought Brian out here one night and since then the past has been rather persistently on my mind. Brian had since been here numerous times. He’d even cleared the high weeds from the family cemetery and taken it upon himself to whitewash the tombs in keeping with local custom. I had meant to thank him for his trouble, but such things do not always stay uppermost in my mind.

“Do you feel echoes here, Louis? Is it this place that has brought the past back to you with such force? It’s not like you to dwell upon those times.”

“Because I don’t often bring those days up any more does not mean they are forgotten. There are echoes here, just as there are in our home and on the streets of our city. You hear them as well as I, probably better. Sometimes the echoes resonate a little louder. Remember when I brought Brian out here? He came back later and found that coin, the one I once wore around my ankle. “

“The one I took from you and threw out the window. I remember. Perhaps your Yvette is trying to speak to you.”

I smiled and shook my head. “She’s not in this place. I would not expect her to be. She is gone on to wherever those souls released by death go.“

“Many remain. Sometimes you feel them brush past.”

“Yes.” I said simply, dropping to the ground and settling onto my back. “I want to tell you about Julia.” He followed suit and lay down beside me with his hands laced beneath his head. 

“I went to speak with her, there in view of her family and some others. When you went there, she thought that you were an angel—an honest assumption. The little ones often think that.” I turned my head to see his smile. “However, I did not wish her parents to begin to worry that she was hallucinating or some such thing. People these days are so quick to bring their children to therapists or to give them things to close their minds. Nostrums and mendicants.” I waited a few beats to see if he would speak, but he was quiet, waiting for me to go on. “She is a bright child. You marked her resemblance to Juliette?”

”Astonishing. I saw at once why she had arrested your attention. Right down to the mark on her neck, yes? We know that there is no end to possibilities; we ourselves are proof of that and so are many of the things that we have seen and heard over the centuries. That mark is telling, somehow. Like a signal.”

I sat up and turned my body so that I was looking down at him. I was excited by what he had said. “Yes, like a signal. One signal among several, because there were mannerisms that were eerily familiar and twice there was an expression in her eyes that seemed to come from somewhere past Julia herself. No struggle within her because of it, either, but a calmness while she waited for the other to withdraw. Here is the part which may have drawn the attention of the Order. She quite easily picked up a thought from me and spoke of it as if she believed that such a thing was in no way out of the ordinary.”

“How did they know, I wonder?” Lestat said, half to himself.

“They watch us. They know who my descendants are. It was likely chance if indeed they are even aware of that aspect. I want to find out if they are and either way, I want her left alone.”

Lestat nodded, flexing and sitting up. “There has been entirely too much invasion of late. Couple that with the insufferable audacity of that threat I received from the Order some time back and really, Louis, I feel the need to put a few people back in their places. They seem to have mistaken my tolerance for weakness.”

“Tolerance?” I said amused. “You must mean your indifference, my love.”

“Touché. These past few years I have had other things on my mind,” he said with an inviting smile. I resisted the urge to roll with him on the cool earth, lazily rending the clothes from his body.

“There is something else which does not involve the interlopers. It’s that man, Julia’s father. When he draws near to her, tension emanates from her and from her mother as well. I am unsure of the reasons and I would be most appreciative, Lestat, if you would observe and try his mind. I am not as skilled at sifting through the muddied thoughts of mortals and he seemed singularly impervious to probing, somehow. I did not wish to invade Julia’s mind, especially when I learned of her ability.”

“I have observed that those with something to hide will also hide it from themselves and that, in turn, makes the person more difficult to read. It’s as though in hiding such secrets, they gain some bit of mental shielding.” 

Lestat likes to hunt those people who are predators themselves. He has told me that there is something quite piquant about the moment of realization when they understand they are no longer the ones that hunt but have instead been hunted. Sitting with him and talking like this felt different. Our conversations don’t usually run along such lines anymore, since we are able to share our minds when joined in blood. I found that I was enjoying this more mundane give and take. As intense and as intimate as that connection is, there are those things which never come to light because they are unlooked for.

“When do you want me to see Monsieur Fournier?”

“Soon. Do it in your own way. I have noticed that you have a gift for such endeavors.”

”You have noticed a great many things, it would seem,” he said, laying his head in my lap. “Have you noticed how I am longing for the taste of you?”

“I might have noticed something along those lines, yes.” I said seriously.

He sat up and drew me close. I bared my neck and he sank his teeth into me with a low snarl. There was no more need for words, no need for anything the feel of his mouth drawing slow and sensual and the weight of his body atop mine.

**(Brian)**

There was a short note from Louis in the office, asking me if I would kindly go and purchase a laptop for him and if at all possible have it loaded and ready for him to use upon his awakening that evening. I found the request a little strange—Louis was usually content to use the powerful office computer for his occasional forays online. Lestat had scrawled an addendum to the bottom of the note:

_Top of the line, Brian.  
LdL_

It was a good thing I’d gotten up a bit earlier than usual; I was still working with the laptop when they awakened. Louis meandered in and from the bedroom I heard Lestat humming to himself as he chose something to wear.

“Ah. I see you found my note. _Très bon_.”

“Nearly ready.” I said. “Some of the software you wanted wasn’t that easy to locate.”

“Many thanks. Will you be much longer?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe?” I looked at him from where I sat on the floor with the machine balanced on my thigh. 

”Excellent. Lestat and I will return shortly. Ah—here you are ‘Stat. Brian has not quite finished. A small bite, perhaps?”

Lestat winked at me. “One would think I put you up to this, Brian. I am most appreciative, of course. I’m certain I will have very little attention from Louis once he begins his project.”

As rabidly curious as I was, I refrained from any questions, mostly because I was caught in his amused blue gaze and found myself tongue-tied as a result.

“Perhaps Brian will find a way to keep you occupied.” Louis said with a sweep of dark lashes. “Shall we go?”

“Momentarily, my love. Do you think you will finish your document this evening?”

“I am certain of it.” Louis said, brushing Lestat’s cheek with his knuckles.

“Brian, call Gibeault, if you please, and set up a time for us to meet with him tomorrow evening.”

“I’ll do that right away.” I said, looking around for my cell phone. 

“Here.” Lestat said, tossing it to me. I’d left it on the desk.

“Would you also call Persephone and ask her to attend? I should like her to witness the documents along with you.” Louis said.

“Of course.”

They left and when they opened the front door downstairs I heard Louis murmuring followed by Lestat’s rich laugher projected both up through the foyer and out into the street. He made no effort to contain the volume and that told me that Louis had said something that had taken him by surprise. While I waited for Glaise Gibeault to answer his phone, I tried to erase the grin from my face—I am one of those people who you can sort of hear smiling and that wouldn’t do at all with Gibeault.

Next: Chapter Fourteen


	14. Strange How the Night Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Night Moves - Sifting through suspcions - Brian take care of some business.

**  
(Lestat)**

“I think you delight in tying Brian in hormonal knots, Louis,” I said. We’d left the Quarter behind, roaming areas that the tourists don’t know about and the locals know to avoid. Louis was hungry and I never pass up an invitation to hunt with him.

“It’s not me that ties those knots, Lestat, though I suppose I pull them a little tighter now and again,” he said with a complacent smile.

We were being watched very closely as we walked, but the denizens of the housing project, usually very active selling their drugs, had faded into the shadows. “I think word has gotten out about us, Louis.”

“One predator knows another and you have been frequenting this area of late. Of course they are wary.”

I looked at him as they might perceive him; it was not so long ago that I had observed Louis through mortal eyes myself and I remembered very clearly how he looked. He had in no way been trying to pass as anything but what he was. He was that way now, too, not bothering to project a mortal façade. Ruthless people pay much more attention to their instincts and doubtless word had gone out around the area about those that had disappeared. I turned to make some remark to Louis and noticed then the set of his shoulders and the singular focus in his eyes. I felt a sudden surge of lust and a fierce wave of hunger at the sight. “There.” He said. “That building. Second floor.”

**(Narrative)**

There were four people in the space Louis had indicated. Three of them were heavily armed men, and the fourth was a woman, little more than a wasted skeleton, her body ravaged by drugs and ill-treatment. The decayed building they were in gave lie to the amount of high tech entertainment equipment in the room. Two of the men sat at a table filling tiny brown vials with chips of yellowish-white poison. The woman shivered in the corner, watching them with over-bright eyes and shaking hands. They’d used her, one after another, earlier in the day and glancing over at her, one of the men nodded to her to approach. He gave her three of the vials and said something coarse to her. She took little notice, scurrying from the room to get high in the relative peace of the squalid bathroom.

The pair of vampires entered the building, moving silently up the dark stairway, fetid with the stench of human waste. They paid no notice to the smells, intent upon their stalking. Their silence was unnecessary, for the entire building throbbed with thunderous bass notes that all but obscured the angry wordsblaring from the expensive system the men were listening to. 

One of the vampires said something into the ear of the other who nodded his agreement. A moment later the door was flat upon the floor and they blurred into the room to the surprised shouts of the three men. It was over very quickly and not one of the three had had time to draw a weapon. The angry rhythm pounded on even as the vampires feasted.

“There is someone in the other room,” one of them said after they had finished.

“Leave her. She’s nearly dead anyway.”

Several hours later the wasted female staggered out of the bathroom and observed the carnage. She stared with dull eyes for a while at the ravaged bodies; after a time, she stepped carefully around the mess and put all of the vials on the table into a plastic bag and left the room.

**(Lestat)**

We left that place as silently as we entered it, sated with mortal blood and shuddering with leashed passion; Louis feral and predatory has long been a source of lustful fascination to me. We moved through the dirty streets faster than human eyes could track us. He pulled me with him down an alley and took me, pressed hard against the brick wall, whispering obscenities into my ear with each thrust and warning me to hold back.

“Don’t you do it, Lestat. Don’t you come.” He muttered, his hands gripping my hips. “My Rules. Mine.”

**~~~~~**

We arrived back at our home some three hours after we’d left, Louis very languid and affable and myself much less so, still twitchy with desire. He knew it and kissed me sweetly before he sat down beside Brian on the small leather couch in the office for Brian’s brief instructions on how his new toy worked. Brian very easily sensed these undercurrents and he was nearly as twitchy as I was, his hand trembling slightly as he pointed out this or that feature in the software that he’d loaded for Louis.

“ _Merci, mon canard_ ” Louis said, rising and closing the notebook. “I believe I shall go to the parlour to work on my document. Did you speak with Monsieur Gibeault?”

“Yes. He will expect you at 10 tomorrow night at the Prytania Street office. Perry---Persephone—said she would be there too.”

“I am most appreciative.” Louis said, his mouth close to Brian’s. I felt that old familiar twinge of jealous possession, followed by what was becoming a quite painful tightening in my groin. Louis glanced at me and kissed Brian lightly on the mouth and then he left the room.

Brian looked at me with glazed eyes.“Holy shit,” he said, swallowing. 

“Tell me about it,” I answered

“Um. You had a message. Angelo from Herbsaint called. He said Tom Fournier was there for dinner.”

“Did he? Well, there’s a distraction. What time was that?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes before you got back.”

“Very good. Are you busy?”

“Not anymore,” he said, giving himself a mental shake.

“We’ll need to walk somewhat briskly. Your phone, please?” After speaking to Angelo, I went to the parlour.

“We are going to see Fournier.” I said. Louis sat cross-legged on the divan with the laptop balanced upon his thigh.

“Brian is attending?”

“You did say to do this in my own way, yes?”

He smiled. “I did. Come and kiss me before you leave.”

I did, and his fang, piercing my bottom lip for a brief taste did very little to assuage my already singing nerve endings. “ _Je t’aime, mon couer_ ,” he breathed.

**(Brian)**

We reached Herbsaint on St. Charles some thirty minutes later. Lestat, of course, was not in the least fatigued; I was winded with the pace he’d set, but not overly so.

“We could have driven,” I said, wiping the perspiration from my forehead as we went inside.

“Have a drink and catch your breath,” he said. “I see him already—he and that woman have not finished dinner yet.” We went to the bar and sat down. Angelo, the bartender approached. 

“Angelo. Thank you for your timely call. Bring Brian a short Irish whisky, best in the house.” He pushed a hundred dollar bill across the bar. “Please keep the change.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lioncourt. Glad to help,” Angelo said, grinning hugely. “Bush Black, coming right up.”

“So what’s going on?” I asked after Angelo walked away.

“I need to you to engage Mr. Fournier in a conversation for a space of ten minutes or so. The longer, the better. I need a little time to look into his mind. This is at Louis’ request and in the interests of the child. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “Is that Julia’s mother?”

No. That is one Mrs. Beaumont. She was at a party at the Fourniers’ home the night I first went to see the child. It does not take much in the way of mind reading to see that Patrice Fournier has valid grounds for a divorce, should she want one. However, I wonder of this is a device to keep Tom’s mind from other pursuits.”

“Like what?” I asked, not following his line of reasoning right away.

“Louis has also visited the Fourniers; he has, in fact, made himself known as a distant relation and both Patrice and Tom found it undeniable when they looked at him. His resemblance to Julia, of course.”

I nodded.

“During this visit, he had time to speak with the child and to note certain reactions from both Julia and her mother, chief among them, anxiousness on the part of Julia’s mother and something very similar but necessarily less informed on Julia’s part.”

“He’s molesting her.” I said in a flat voice.

“I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. Louis seems to feel that some sort of abuse may be an imminent thing, however. Nothing spoken of, of course, because these things are never spoken of, are they? Say whatever you want, bring Louis into it, or not. Just keep him from noticing me and any sort of intrusion. He may not notice anyway.”

I nodded.“Okay. I’ll go to the table. Mention that I work for Louis. Louis pointed him out to me at Mass. It’ll probably make him nervous enough that he won’t notice anything else.“

Lestat nodded. “Good. That’s good.”

“Lestat?”

“Yes?”

“What is it about her, this child? Is she that much like the girl in the portrait?”

“She is. It is more than how she looks. I knew Juliette. There are many similarities. If there is more to it than that, I cannot say until Louis chooses to share more with me than he has thus far.” He was looking past me to where Fournier and the woman were seated. “Their plates are being cleared. Order a bottle of good wine to be sent to their table.”

**(Lestat)**

The waiter brought the bottle of wine to Fournier’s table and pointed Brian out to him. Brian raised his drink and sauntered over to the table. I watched as he engaged Fournier in conversation and after several minutes, he pulled a chair from a nearby empty table and joined them, pouring the wine for them as he spoke animatedly. For someone who spends a good bit of time alone, Brian is genial and engaging around people, able to put them at their ease. This was just what I wanted him to do and I focused my attention on Fournier.

I believe I have mentioned that reading the thoughts of humans is not so cut and dried or simple as those words make it sound. People think in images with a sort of running dialog that accompanies the images. The knack of sorting through them for something that you specifically wish to see can be tricky and is, more often than not, quite tedious. Usually what you see or hear are random thoughts or whatever is uppermost on a person’s mind and trust me, as prosaic as most people’s lives tend to be this is not anywhere near as interesting as it sounds. I don’t say that out of any sense of superiority—it’s actually rather amazing just how many things are present in the forefront of any given person’s mind, but on the whole much of it would be of little interest to anyone else. One of the first things a vampire learns to do is how to shut off the stream of thought-babble because we have quite enough to drive us insane.

When I began my probe of Tom Fournier’s mind, the first thing I saw/heard/felt was his suspicious unease about Brian mentioning that he worked for Louis as a personal assistant and that Louis had pointed Tom out at St. Louis’ at evening mass not too long ago. Fournier did not doubt that Brian had seen him there; rather, his anxiety was centered on what Brian might be thinking about his current companion followed by the questions he had in his mind regarding Louis’ appearance into their lives. Would this cousin interfere? I pushed that a bit and saw there a dark impatience with his wife and nebulous thoughts regarding the child. Further probing seemed to distract him and his mind drifted from the surface conversation he was maintaining. He looked around the room and I turned my face from him, picking up the glass before me and sipping at the contents. His gaze passed over me and when he settled down a little, I tried again.

This time I got it. Julia was not Fournier’s natural daughter. She was Patrice’s and he had adopted her when he and Patrice had married. I pushed a little further. There was arrogance there; he felt that Patrice should be grateful that he had married him, in spite of the fact that it had been her money that had sent him through law school. I wondered what either Patrice or the stunning Mrs. Beaumont saw in him.

Caitlin Beaumont. I grazed her thoughts and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Attraction to Tom—his money? The hyper masculinity? It was unclear. Something that was clear was her immediate attraction to Brian. She was a divorced socialite with ambitions, something along those lines and very aware of her own magnetism and the attention she had caught from others in the restaurant. She seemed puzzled at Brian’s obvious immunity to her charm. I caught Brian’s eye and nodded, signaling that I was done. He stayed at the table for a few minutes more and then excused himself. I paid the bartender and exited before he got back to the bar and through the window I saw him place his empty glass down and exchange a few words with Angelo.

“Find what you were looking for?” He asked when he joined me outside. 

“I did. You have a certain flair for this sort of thing, don’t you?”

“Not that big a deal, is it? None of what I said was wholly untrue, after all, except for seeing him at church. Louis did, though, so close enough.”

He was clearly curious as to what I might have found out. “Mrs. Beaumont was attracted to you.” I told him.

“The sexy Caitlin, you mean. She’s a man-eater, all right.”

”And is that not your type?” I asked archly.

“You know how it is." He shrugged. "What about Fournier?”

“He is arrogant and controlling, but that on its own is not so unusual. The same could be said of many men. He has fantasies of lurid but curiously mundane cruelties. He thinks he can get away with more because of his power and status, but more because he believes in the superiority of his intellect.” I said. “I expect that is why there was anxiety on Patrice Fournier’s part. He is good at hiding his nature from others; men like him often are. His sportsman persona is a way of doing it.”

“You could tell all that?”

I shrugged. “It’s an interpretation of what I saw, so I might be off the mark, but the salient points seemed clear enough.”

“He sounds dangerous.”

“Possibly dangerous to those who he feels that he can control. His wife. The child. Perhaps the voluptuous Mrs. Beaumont. I would imagine that he is a petty tyrant to those who work for him.”

Brian stopped walking and he looked hard at me.

“What? Louis already knew there was something not right about him.”

“It’s not that.” He said as we resumed walking. “I guess it’s just that people are never really what they seem to be. Except for being a run-of-the-mill shithead cheating on his wife, he seemed like a pretty normal guy.”

“You would know about that, yes? After all, your own life includes a bit of deception. Do you feel that you are responsible for those that you know have died at our hands? Because of your deception, I mean.”

His face was still; his thoughts were not. He had not expected this turn in the conversation, but as he so often does, he took it in stride.

“Because I know that it happens doesn’t mean I have the power to make it stop. What would I do? Turn you in? Try to kill you? I might be a little on the crazy side at this point, but I don’t think that the laws of the land were made with guys like you in mind. Most people refuse to see you for what you are or even acknowledge that you are here among them. Is it up to me to change their minds? There are people that are in positions of authority that know and _they_ don’t move against you.”

“And none of them love me.” I said.

He met my eyes steadily for the space of a heartbeat. “That’s right.” 

I left it at that. I don’t know what drives me to prick him that way. I know it hurts him at the same time that it stimulates him, but then, I am known to have a streak of cruelty of my own.

**(Louis)**

By the time Lestat and Brian returned, I had finished my document with the aid of the legal software Brian had purchased. I could as easily have had one of the many lawyers that Lestat has on retainer do this, but it was something I wanted to see to myself, mostly to ensure that there were no loopholes or back doors that might undermine the intent of the document. The document involved the transferal of some land and money to Julia with the stipulation that none of it be available to her father under any circumstances. It was the fact that Thomas Fournier was a lawyer that made me wish to pull tight any seams that might be pricked apart by a cunning legal mind and it afforded a modicum of safety insofar as he had no right to any of the money or land in the case of untimely death.

Not that he would live long enough to have enjoyed it in that circumstance.

Lestat’s twitchy lust had subsided somewhat during our short separation, replaced by a prickly restlessness. He had leaned over the back of the divan and pressed a warm kiss to my shoulder when they came in, but since then he had been pacing the room as he related his findings. His revelations ran along the lines I had anticipated, but that confirmation did little to assuage the low sense of urgency that had come over me during my encounter with Julia.

During Lestat’s recitation, Brian had been sitting in one of the wing chairs with the reading lamp on, going over the transferal document. He has no legal training, of course, but he has seen so many legal papers in his time with us that he has become comfortable with the language and intent behind it. He looked engrossed, but it seemed that his mind was not fully trained upon what he was reading. He became aware of my gaze and looked up from his reading. “I don’t know why you bother having lawyers. You could do it all yourself.” He placed the papers on the small side table.

“I have no wish to involve myself that closely with everything that needs such overseeing.” I said. “Is something on your mind?”

“Nothing unusual,” he said briefly. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“No, I think we are finished.” Lestat said. “Prytania Street at 10 tomorrow night, was it?”

Brian nodded. “Yes, 10 p.m. Good night," He gave me a strained version of his normal smile and left the room, pattering quickly down the stairs and out the front door.

I looked at Lestat. “What was that about?”

“I stuck a pin in a bit harder than was necessary," he said sourly.

“I am sure you are already forgiven.” 

Lestat took the laptop and closed it, placing it on the table among a scattering of periodicals and books and sat down beside me.“Doubtless,” He said with a self-deprecatory air. I put my arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. 

“I am quite sure you will find a way to make it up to him.” 

He nodded and then changed the subject. “Are you still intent upon visiting the child again?”

“More than ever. I am appreciative of your insights, my love.”

“I am not sure what you hope to accomplish.” He said.

“Accomplish? What I want is for that child to grow up without feeling like she is caught in a snare from which she can never escape.“

“And how will you do this?”

“I don’t have an answer for that beyond keeping a watchful eye on her situation. Do you disapprove?”

The question elicited a short laugh from him. “I am well aware, Louis, that you do not need my approval to do that which you have already set your mind to. I ask only because it is unlike you to become so drawn in.”

He was correct, of course. I have had other such interactions, but they have been infrequent and generally involved only occasional visits or correspondence. When I made no immediate reply, he ran his knuckles across my cheek.

“If you feel that strongly about it, then of course we will keep watch. Perhaps the factors that have been in play have come together just now in order to draw your attention and mine.”

“It may be so. Come to bed, my love. I believe we have some unfinished business to attend to.”

  
**(Brian)**

I wandered over to the townhouse late the next morning to find that Louis had left me another hand-written note. In it I was instructed to go to Whitney National and access the vault where the portrait of Juliette was stored. The wording made it very clear that he expected the portrait to be here when he awakened, so I went back to my place to shower and dress in something a little more appropriate than the wrinkled jeans I’d put on when I got up. 

The shower is a great place to think. Maybe it’s the sound of the water or something. I was thinking about Lestat, specifically about the jab he’d made the night before. He calls it sticking pins, a euphemism that sounds sort of playful or at least less painful than it actually is. You don’t have to be a psych major to see it for what it is; lashing out at someone because of stress or anxiety or anger. When I had made the remark about people not being what they seemed, it had been with Fournier in mind and Lestat was aware of it. His rejoinder had rattled me not because I am unaware of my own façade, but because I get a little tired of the endless questioning of my loyalty and the barbs about what I feel for him. Seriously, if I was going to turn against them, I’m pretty sure he’d know about with his super-bat-powers and all. 

I squirted some shampoo into my hand and lathered up my hair, sighing a little. I knew it wasn’t me that he was frustrated with, not really. There was, after all, quite a bit going on. Lestat had been handling Louis’ distance and his relative silence with as much patience as I have ever seen him exhibit. That meant spillage somewhere else and because of my position it was inevitable that some of overflow would wash over me. For the most part Lestat makes these feints when I tread too familiarly on his toes with some remark or action that he deems as overstepping. I’d said something offhand a while back about bodies piling up lately. Sometimes a remark like that attracts no notice at all and other times he decides I must be put back into my place, whatever that is. It’s hard to know when something I say or do will somehow irk one of them because I play a lot of roles. Sometimes friend, sometimes confessor and occasionally, even accomplice of sorts. There are times when I am well-nigh invisible to them and other times when there is a great deal of attention lavished on me. You can get used to anything, I guess, but like I said, this wasn’t about me at all.

The pressure was building; it was as palpable to me as the humidity of a New Orleans summer night and just as oppressive. It was no accident that one of his barbs concerned loyalty. Betrayal is something that neither of them tolerates and Tracy Harvey paid a heavy price as a result of hers. So far no connection had been made and even if the law eventually drew the correct conclusions, the crime, as it were, would very likely go away. It was unlike either of them to use that particular tactic because they liked living in New Orleans and so did not usually draw such attention to themselves. There are numbers of people who know what they are and more who guessed at it. Some of them take it as a matter of course; after all, this town is extraordinary in many ways, not the least of which is a willingness to believe in things that the world at large has passed off as superstition or myth.

While I was dressing, I wondered if Louis wanted to hang the portrait somewhere, or what. Whatever he wanted, I knew I had a bit of a struggle ahead of me. Victor Rimbaud was skittish around them, but he’s just a prick when I have deal with him on my own and never mind that I have a tidy bank account with Whitney. I get the feeling that he thinks the gains are somehow ill-gotten, which is pretty funny when you think about it. It’s also funny how avaricious men like him are so covetous of the wealth they are merely guardians for. Rimbaud is a wealthy man, but he’s peanuts next to the Pointe du Lac-Lioncourt fortune and he damn well knows it. I found myself looking forward to sparring with him, if it came to that.

**(Narration)**

“Do you have some sort of documentation from Monsieur Pointe du Lac authorizing you to remove the portrait?”

I don’t need it.” Brian said mildly. “I am on file as having access to the vaults. You already looked that up. So did the manager downstairs. I understand his wariness, but I don’t understand yours.“

Rimbaud looked hard at Brian Callahan and wondered again how it was that this man was in the position he was. Victor knew quite a lot about Brian. He knew that Callahan had barely made it out of high school and had been a drifter, more or less, until he’d reached New Orleans and somehow managed to insinuate his way into a pretty lucrative job. “I am only doing my job, Mr. Callahan. It seems a bit irregular for Monsieur to send you on such an errand.”

Brian shrugged. “You’d be surprised at some of the—errands I have been sent upon.”

“Why does he wish to remove the portrait?” 

“He has his reasons, I’m sure. Maybe you’d like to phone him up later and ask him-- you know, when he wakes up? Then you can tell him why he doesn’t have the portrait there in his home as he wished. He made it very clear to me that he wanted it there when he awakened.”

Rimbaud cleared his throat and stood up suddenly. “No need for that,” he said testily. “I’ll accompany you to the vault.”

Brian nodded. “After that business of things inexplicably gone missing, I guess I’d be on the alert, too. “ Brian said this as they passed Rimbaud’s secretary. He saw her smother a grin and gave her a wink. Raylene liked Brian—she didn’t understand her boss’s animosity toward him.

The portrait was duly removed from the niche it occupied and Brian signed several documents stating that he had removed the portrait and that it would be gone from the collection indefinitely. Rimbaud took the time to look carefully at his signature and to note down his driver’s license number, imbuing each action with an apologetic air that they both knew was entirely forced. Brian asked that the portrait be unwrapped so that they could ascertain the condition before it left the vault. Victor acquiesced, annoyed that he had not thought of it first. The archivist, an older man with tufts of white hair that floated about his head like a halo, noted a few small flaws in the finish of the frame and the darkened condition of the oils on a separate form and when it had also been duly signed by all parties, he re-wrapped the portrait carefully.

“The portrait is exquisite,” he told Brian. I’m glad Monsieur Louis has decided to take it out and enjoy it. It’s a shame to keep such a nice work hidden away. I have only seen one other example of this artist’s work.”

”He died young, or so I was told.” Brian said, meeting Victor’s gaze past the archivist’s shoulder.

“He did. He was in his early twenties. So many died prematurely in those days. A shame—he was a gifted portrait artist. You are driving, I hope. The painting has been in a controlled environment for a long time; the humidity…”

“It’s not a long walk, but I drove here with that in mind.” Brian assured him. “I appreciate your concern, of course. And thank you for taking such good care of her.” He patted the edge of the package lightly.

“My pleasure, of course. Monsieur Pointe du Lac has an impressive collection and I am proud to care for it. Please give him my regards. I’m Lawrence Sericchio, by the way.” He held out a gnarled hand and Brian took it carefully. 

“I will,” he said. “Glad to meet you.” Victor made an impatient noise and Brian turned. “I’ll be certain to let Monsieur know how attentive to each detail you have been as well.” Brian said pleasantly on his way out. Rimbaud nodded shortly and bade him good afternoon.

Next: Chapter Fifteen


	15. In The Light , You Will Find The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the past and present coalesce, decisions are reached and an ultimatum laid down.

**~Chapter Fifteen~**

**(Lestat)**

They sat side by side, Julia’s dark curls tumbling down her back as she looked up at Louis. Her posture was intent and focused, as was his; their murmuring was quiet, Julia’s high, childish voice a counterpoint to Louis’ deeper tone. Julia had come, not with her mother as Louis had expected, but with her fiercely protective governess, or nanny, I suppose such care takers are called now. Brian had made some headway into setting this strong woman at ease and they sat near to where I was, getting to know one another a little. Chantelle cast frequent glances at Julia, but she was much less suspicious than she had been upon their arrival. Julia’s own reactions to Louis had gone even further to lull her than either Brian’s honest good will or my own attempts at charming her.

“No mind touch, Lestat,” Louis said when he’d realized who Julia had arrived with. “This woman has good instincts and I would prefer to have her as attentive to Julia’s welfare as she is now, especially in view of Mr. Marchland’s talents. There is no need for you to be anything but your most charming self, anyway.” He brushed my hair back from my eyes.

“As you say.” I said with self-mocking bow. He dropped his serious expression and smiled.

“Lestat, I see mischief in your eyes. Do try to restrain yourself.” 

Chantelle turned her penetrating gaze on me and I looked back at her as mildly as I was able to and I was gratified to see a faint smile on her lips. The credit belonged to Brian; I had refrained from doing anything overt in order to assuage her suspicions, but mildness is really not my forte. Still, much like Louis, I liked her fierceness and her dedication—she was strong-minded and since it involved this child that was descended from Louis’ mortal family, her protectiveness was a welcome thing.I stood and joined Chantelle and Brian. “We were expecting Julia to visit with her mother.” I said pleasantly. “No offense to you, of course.”

A fleeting cloud passed her face. “Mrs. Fournier had another engagement,” she said with the facility of one who has had to cover for another more than once. “I was happy to bring her. Julia talks about her Uncle Louis all the time since they met."

“You were less than friendly when you met Louis before.” I said. 

“Julia is my responsibility. There are always people out to take advantage of rich folks.”

I laughed. “Come now. You can see Louis resembles her very closely and it must be clear that he does not look for monetary gain.”

"I know that now. I didn't when he first showed up." 

“Brian?” Louis said from the couch where he and Julia were seated. “Would you bring the portrait please?” 

Brian rose and crossed the room to where the portrait rested against one of the bookcases, wrapped in heavy brown paper. He picked it up carefully and brought it to Louis.

“Is that for me?” Julia asked

“Yes, _ma petite_ ,” Louis said. He helped her with the heavy brown wrapping.

“It’s a picture.” Julia said Louis did not answer. He watched her face intently as she tore at the wrapping.

“Oh, it’s her! “ Julia said. Louis’ eyebrows raised.

“Do you know her?” He asked.

“I dream her.” Julia said simply. “She says that she misses her daddy sometimes. She looks like me, doesn’t she?” Julia reached to the portrait and touched Juliette’s cheek.

“Oh, Lord.” Chantelle whispered. “Who is that?”

“Her name was Juliette de Pointe du Lac.” I said. “A relative of Louis’s.”

Her eyes were sharp. “How does Julia know who she is?”

“I think you hardly need to ask me such a thing, _mademoiselle_ ,“ I said carefully. 

“Chantelle! Look!” Julia called from her place at Louis’ side. “I told you she was real and you didn’t believe me.”

Chantelle rose, eyes trained on the portrait. “I’m sorry, honey. You were right to scold me.” 

“She looks like me.” Julia saidagain, “And she looks like you, too!”

I realized that Julia was referring to Juliette’s dusky complexion which was indeed like Chantelle’s...and like her own.

“Yes, she does.” Chantelle’s voice trembled but Julia did not notice; she had her arms around Louis’ neck, peering at me with a shy smile from over his shoulder. “You knew her too!” she said joyfully and I was amazed, because she had known my mind.

**(Louis)**

Julia let go of my neck and slid from the couch. I propped the portrait where she had been sitting and she looked at it again. The resemblance was quite strong and Julia was very like my long-dead niece in ways that went beyond appearance. She was excited at the moment and perhaps more at ease being away from her mother and her stepfather, but I had observed that she was a quiet, solemn child. The first time I had seen her, my heart had been wrung with pain at the dark and knowing expression in her eyes.

I turned and caught Lestat’s gaze, reading concern and comfort there mingled with his surprise at Julia’s facility in plucking a thought from his mind. Julia was not Juliette, similarities notwithstanding. I turned to Chantelle.

“Might I have a word with you, Chantelle? Come, I will show you the view we have from our balcony. Brian, perhaps you will bring Julia to the kitchen for some refreshment and then join us in the parlour?”

“What do you say, Julia? Sound good?” Brian said. I blessed him then for his humanity. I blessed him for his good and accommodating nature, for it was clear that Julia liked him.

Julia smiled at him; another genuine smile. “Yes please. Then she turned her direct gaze upon Lestat. “Are you coming too?"

“Of course.” Lestat said. “And we shall bring Juliette with us. There is some tape on Louis’ desk, _ma fifille_. Bring it to me and we'll wrap her up safely.”

I restrained myself from offering Chantelle my arm, instead gesturing for her to go ahead of me which is about as gentlemanly as things are these days.

“You mind your manners, Julia,” she said.

"Yes, m'am.” Julia said absently. She was already absorbed with the work of taping the paper around the portrait.

“You have a lovely home,” Chantelle said when we reached the balcony. She leaned on the railing and looked own the street. The breeze rustled the ferns hanging over us and rattled the leaves of the China rose in its pot. “What did you want to talk to me about?” 

“Julia, of course. It is no stretch to notice that you are suspicious of my intent.”

”I’m paid to look out for her.”

“It’s more than that, isn’t it? Your focus and protectiveness are clear enough. You are doing the best you can to watch out for her. Because you love her.” My statement bled some of her coolness away and she darted glances at my face and my eyes, as though she was not sure where to settle her gaze.

“Of course I love her. So?”

This woman was Julia’s best ally, more so than her mother, I thought. “I am a newcomer to her life, but that does not mean I have bad intentions. She and I share a blood bond; surely that is obvious to you.”

“Yes,” she said, conceding that and only that. 

“I see that the child is troubled. I was such a child myself and so I recognize it in others. Do you see?”

Chantelle nodded, keeping her eyes trained on the street below as she listened.

“I am also not without resources. I have drawn up papers to provide the child with means, so that she will never want for anything. I have also made available provision for Patrice, should she decide to leave her husband. She wavers, I think, because of his power over her. Such independence might tilt the balance. I am bringing these documents to our attorneys this evening, after you and the child take your leave.”

Chantelle remained silent for a long while as she thought about what I had said. “Why would you do this for a child you don’t even know?” she said at last.

“She is blood, even though I have only now discovered the link. Like knows like. I was a solemn child myself, though my circumstances were different. I see that Patrice is unhappy. I see, also, that Thomas Fournier is obsessed with a grandiose vision of himself. Most of all, I see that Julia feels trapped. I will do nothing to try and influence Patrice or Thomas, but I will say that should there be any need for assistance at any time, I would hope that you might feel free to contact me. If I am not available, Brian always is and he will act in all ways to help the child should it be necessary.”

“I shouldn’t trust you.” Chantelle said finally.

“Yet...?” I asked.

“Yet I _want_ to. Because of her. It’s like I know you mean what you say.”

I nodded. “I expected no less from you; indeed, I am pleased that you are so intent upon her best interests.” We heard Julia coming up the stairs with Brian and Lestat. Julia was laughing. Chantelle back over her shoulder to the inviting glow of the lamp in the parlour.

“I mean what I say.” I told her, looking steadily into her dark eyes.

“I believe that you do Mr.…”

“Louis. Please call me Louis.”

“Louis, then. I do what I can to watch out for her, but I’m not there 24-7. Mrs. Fournier tries. She does, but Mr. Fournier, it’s like he fools her."

I nodded again. “You are welcome here at any time. Brian lives in the back and he will answer the bell or the phone, should Lestat or myself be unavailable. He will give you a card with all pertinent numbers; I hope you will use them should the need arise.”

"Julia is a gifted child." Chantelle said slowly. "The child in the painting is a relative, you said. But that's an old painting, isn't it? That little girl is long gone, yet Julia says she knows her, she says she's seen her, so..." She looked as though she might have something more to say, but then Lestat spoke from the parlour.

“There they are, Julia. On the balcony, as I said.” Lestat said to Julia. She was perched upon his shoulders.

“I brought you a beignet, Chantelle and Brian has coffee.” Julia said, shrieking suddenly in delight as Lestat lifted her and swung her down. His shirt was powdered with the surgar falling from the napkin in Julia's hands. She ran to me and took my hand.

“Do you like coffee, Uncle Louis?”

”Why yes, I do.” I said . Julia put her small hand into mine. Chantelle hesitated, standing there in the shadows. "Call any evening, Chantelle," I said in a soft voice as Julia led me into the warm light of the parlour. Chantelle nodded and followed us in.

**(Brian)**

The Prytania Street offices of Gibeault, Stanton & Page are in an exquisite Victorian house. On the rare occasions when Louis’ presence was necessary, he much preferred doing business at this office rather than at the main offices in the business district.. We were a good half an hour early, but Perry was already there.

“Good evening Persephone.” Louis smiled warmly at her and raised her hand to his mouth, brushing her knuckles briefly with his lips. “It’s very good to see you again.“

“Good evening Louis,” she answered with what I thought was admirable equanimity, in spite of the flush that rose up her neck. 

Louis leaned forward, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I appreciate your taking the time to accommodate me. I hope I have not disrupted any evening plans that you may have had.”

“Not at all. I’m afraid Mr. Gibeault isn’t here yet. Please come and sit down in the conference room. I’ll call him to see if he is on his way.”

“Not necessary, _chérie_ , after all we have arrived early.” Louis said as we followed her to the room.

“I have coffee ready and there’s tea.” Perry said as we took our seats. 

“You will understand if I forgo, of course.” Louis said pleasantly.

“Of course,” she said. the flush rising to her cheeks. “Brian? Would you like anything?”

“Water, please.” 

“There’s bottled in the fridge. Let me just get that for you.”

Louis watched her as she went out of the room and then placed the briefcase he’d brought along on the table. The front door opened and we heard Gibeault speaking in a hurried voice to Perry. Moments later he entered the room.

“Good evening Monsieur. I hope you will forgive me for not being here when you arrived. How can I help you?” Perry came in with a bottle of water. I took it from her with a nod and she sat down across the table. Gibeault took a seat beside her.

“I need these papers filed as soon as possible. I’ve brought them by to be witnessed by Brian and Miss LeCompte.” Louis pushed the folder across the table. “Some of the funds are from accounts in both _Monsieur_ de Lioncourt and my names. He has already signed those documents.“

Gibeault ran a hand over his iron gay hair and made a noise in his throat as he opened the folder. “Perry, did Mr. Blancmange draw these up?” He asked, brows knitted in concentration as he scanned the pages.

Perry glanced at Louis. He smiled faintly. “I drew the documents up with the aid of a very clever computer program. There are several addendums that I added to insure that my directions were perfectly clear and inarguable," he said.

“ _Monsieur_ , it might be a good idea for me to read this over thoroughly before—“

“I appreciate that you are looking out for my best interests, but the papers are in order. If you will hand them back, we can sign and witness them, yes? I want them filed first thing tomorrow morning and notice sent to Mrs. Fournier forthwith.”

“ _Monsieur_ , I really--”Louis raised a hand and Gibeault stopped. His mouth closed and the cartilage in his jaw seemed to enlarge as he contained his emotions, whatever they were.

“The papers, please.” Louis said. His eyes were cool and the room felt charged. Gibeault slid the folder back to him and Louis took a pen from a cup in the center of the table.“I trust you will forgive my peremptory tone.” Louis said as he signed the various pages in his elegant hand. “I would of course appreciate it if you would peruse the documents and bring any glaring irregularities to my attention. Should you find such a thing, I will understand if the document must wait for a day to be filed.” Louis slid the folder to me and folded his hands. “Does that ease your mind, Glaise?”

“I am only looking out for your best interests.” Gibeault said, slipping into complacent lawyer mode with what looked like a good deal of relief. Gibeault was lulled, perhaps, by Louis’ offhand use of his given name and shift in his cool tone to one of polite interest. “May I ask why this is so urgent? From a cursory scan, it looks like a straightforward transferal of funds.“

“I want it to go through as quickly as possible. I am following an instinct, if you will.”

I glanced at Louis curiously. It was unlike him to explain himself to anyone; in fact, when questioned he either ignores the query or says something totally unrelated to it. His face was fixed in the same polite expression he had assumed moments before. That sounds normal enough, I suppose, but what I mean is the look had not changed or shifted in the slightest, yet his eyes were sharp, taking Gibeault’s measure. I went back to signing pages and passing them across to Perry.

“Tell me, Glaise. Do you know Thomas Fournier?” Louis asked.

Gibeault frowned for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, I know him. Corporate Law, I believe. Does this transferal involve him?” He looked curiously at the papers that Perry had accumulated, but refrained from picking them up.

“It involves his wife and his stepchild. Patrice is a relative, you see and so, of course, is her daughter. Do you have an opinion about Mr. Fournier?”

I finished my part of the signing and sat back in my chair to watch. Gibeault was clearly non-plussed by both the revelation and the somewhat forceful way Louis had asked the question.

“Honesty will do just fine, Glaise. There is no right or wrong answer; I only wish to know what you think of him.” Louis prompted.

I kept my face still and waited for Gibeault to answer.“Do you mean a professional opinion or a personal one?”

Hedging always made Louis impatient. “With the phalanx of lawyers here, I hardly think I need yet another one. Your personal opinion, please.”

“I don’t care for him. He projects himself pretty well and on first meeting most people are inclined to like him. After you get to know him, something about him just makes you want to grind your teeth. If it was just his business persona, I wouldn’t see anything wrong with it. It’s not just business, though—.“ Gibeault floundered for a moment, searching for the right words. He found them. “He’s a reptile.”

“I appreciate your frankness. When you read through the entire file you will see that I agree with your assessment. Perhaps you might extrapolate from this conversation why I would prefer to have the documents filed sooner rather than later.“

Perry finished signing and she placed the documents neatly back into the folder. Gibeault took it and stood. “I’ll just look these over then,and unless I have any serious misgivings, I will file them in the morning.”

Louis stood and turned to me. “I trust you can find your way back home, Brian? There is something else I wish to see to.”

At his request we’d taken the streetcar here and I could just as easily return that way. “Of course. Is there a message for Lestat?”

Louis smiled. “No message. I don’t plan on being gone for very long.” He handed me the empty briefcase and the four of us filed into the reception area. “Thank you for your continued attention, Glaise.” Louis said, shaking hands with the lawyer briefly.

“Not at all.” Glaise said. Louis stepped past him and took Perry’s hand in both of his. “And you, _chérie_. Many thanks.” Once again he brought her hand up to his mouth. A moment later he bade us good night and stepped outside, closing the door firmly behind him. There was a moment of somewhat breathless silence and then Perry spoke.

“I’ll lock up, Mr. Gibeault.”

“Yes, thank you Perry. Mr. Callahan? Good night.” He reached and we shook hands. He left without saying anything else. 

“I can give you a lift if you want, Brian. My car’s here—it was pouring when I left this morning.” 

“Sounds good. One condition, though.”

“What’s that?”

“We go somewhere to eat. I’m starved.”

“I can live with that. I’m pretty hungry myself. Just give me a minute to make sure the offices are locked.”

**(Narrative)**

Gerry’s muscles thrummed with nervous anticipation and he had an insane itch in the direct center of his back. He sat motionless, staring at the digits innocuously displayed on the tiny screen of his cell phone. Having made the decision to call, he was waiting for the roar in his ears to abate somewhat so that he could actually hear if Lestat answered. The air-conditioned room was cool, but his skin was sheened with perspiration and his mouth was dry. His finger remained poised over the send button for a moment longer, hesitant. He pressed it at last.

“Yes?” Gerry’s head swam, and for a moment he thought he might be unable to speak. ”Who is this, please?”

Gerry swallowed. “I’m sorry. This is Gerry Blancmange.“

“Gerry? I wondered if I would hear from you.” Lestat sounded friendly—merry, even, as if he and Gerry shared a fine joke.

“I wonder if we could maybe meet somewhere—“

“What did you have in mind?” Lestat’s voice was playful and Gerry found himself once again in the bizarre position of being terrified and aroused at the same time.

“I have something I need to talk to you about. I think it might be important.” It sounded lame, even to him.

“You sound very grave. Surely it is not so dire?” 

“I don’t know if it is or not. I just think you should know.” Gerry said.

“Well, then, of course we will meet. It all sounds very clandestine, so perhaps a bench in front of the Cathedral? Oh, wait. I know—that little park on Decatur. Latrobe Park. Do you know it?”

“Yes, I know it. I can be there in a half an hour or so. Is that okay?”

“Perfect.” Lestat said. He broke the connection. 

Gerry reached the little park before Lestat and sat down on one of the benches that made a ring around the ornate bronze statue in the center. A jazz band played in the open air plaza behind him, a lively version of the theme song from an old television show that he couldn’t quite place. The upbeat music grated on his already frayed nerves and his eyes felt grainy and dry. He peered into the shadows thrown by the live oaks and rattling palms and he nearly came out of his skin when Lestat’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder.

“It’s a bit loud here.” Lestat said. Gerry craned his neck around and stared up into the vampire’s face. Lestat walked around the bench and Gerry felt the tendons in his neck creak as he followed the movement. “Let’s walk.”  
They crossed the small park and walked by the French market on the riverside. The volume of the music receded somewhat. “What did you want to tell me?”

“A man came to see me at my office today. He said his name was Edgar Middleton and he had a lot of questions about you and Louis and a family named Fournier.”

“Oh, yes?” 

Gerry ignored the apparent lack of interest.“He as much said that it was his association with Tracy that caused her, uh, her disappearance.” Gerry glanced at Lestat’s face, luminous in the shadows. The vampire seemed to be considering what he had said with a thoughtful air and so when he suddenly burst out laughing, Gerry started violently.

“Well, he was right about that.” Lestat said, containing his mirth somewhat.” His name is Marchland, by the way. I wonder why he decided to give you a false name when he was so forthcoming in other areas?” Gerry had no answer to that and so said nothing; he was having some trouble reining in his galloping heart. “And what had you to say to his inquiries?” 

“I told him I couldn’t discuss a client with him. I must have said it to him six different ways, but he kept on questioning me anyway and when I asked him why he didn’t just go and ask Louis himself, he said that you had already warned him off.”

“So I did, for all the attention he seems to have paid.” Lestat said, his mood shifting darkly. He steered Gerry under the outside awning of the Café du Monde. “I’m glad you came to me with your misgivings." 

For the first time that day, Gerry felt his muscles relax>

Lestat gestured to a table. “Coffee?”

**(Louis)**

The approach to Oak Haven is graced by a long _alleé_ of young live oaks. There was no such _alleé_ when the house was constructed, only a rutted track that lead to a fine gate set in the more ordinary prieux fence that kept the chickens and the dogs within. The oaks that shade the house itself are splendid, mature specimens and they do indeed provide a haven of deep shade from the relentless Louisiana sun. The house was configured in the traditional Creole manner and it has undergone several renovations in it’s time, adding some classical elements, two ornate pigeonnieres, and an addition to the rear of the house in a more Anglo style. The original gate is long gone and it has been replaced with gates taken from a demolished plantation home across the river. I remember this house when it was newly built; it is not very far from the place where I spent my mortal life.

The old house is now occupied by members of the Talamasca, that Order of scholars and historians who harbor among themselves mortals gifted with paranormal abilities. The Order has existed for centuries and in that time they have collected all manner of information and history on hauntings, families that pass along precognition as easily as they pass along brown hair or blue eyes, creatures such as myself and very likely many things that I know nothing about. They quarter themselves all over the globe and they have among their many possessions the detritus of the long lives of many vampires; useless junk and treasure alike. It has been, until recently, an order dedicated to collecting—an order concerned with watching.

Their stance has changed and this they lay at Lestat’s doorstep. Their numbers had been decimated by two in recent years; David Talbot, once the Superior General of the Order and Jessica Reeves. David’s change in status was definitely a direct result of his interaction with Lestat; Jessica’s was more a sort of by-product. These are stories that have been told in several forms and from several points of view and in any case, Lestat’s ability to tangle things in a nearly impenetrable fashion is something that they should have been prepared for if there was any logic at all behind their observations. Sending Lestat a formal declaration of their enmity toward him that also threatened his demise accomplished nothing other than to rouse amusement or wrath in him, depending upon his mood at any given moment. He has already begun referring to them collectively as the Fearsome Vampire Hunters and one member in particular as Muffy—or is it Muffin?--the Vampire Slayer.

None of these things had very much to do with the reason I had come to this place; Lestat is more than capable of looking after himself. Their ire at the loss of their members likewise holds no interest for me--it might be considered that such occurrences are occupational hazards within a group such as theirs. My reason for being here has to do with what remains of my mortal family and the insistent invasion of their privacy—specifically of Julia’s privacy. One only has to look at the case of Jessica Reeves to understand that they found her through her own familial connections and when they understood she was also precognitive in her own fashion, they made it a point to bring her into their fold.

I want them to leave Julia alone.

Standing in the shadows of the oaks, I heard them moving about inside even as I listened with surprising pleasure to the chorus of insects, the liquid slap of a fish’s tail in the slow-moving water of the bayou. The air was alive with scent; jasmine and freshly clipped grass, roses and cooking odors and the fecund smell of the water. One of occupants of the house stepped out on the upper gallery, silhouetted in a rectangle of light. I smelled her as well, flesh and thundering blood and the fragrant tobacco of the cigarette she lighted. She leaned on the railing and looked out towards the Mississippi, hidden behind the high levee. She followed the sound of an oil tanker chugging upriver.

Edward Marchland was not there, I knew that after sorting through what thoughts I could discern. His scent was there, but not fresh. It did not matter—his obsession had revealed Julia to them and if they had not yet divined her ability, they soon would. I had my own message to impart. The woman on the gallery was sensitive enough to have picked up on my scrutiny; she peered into the darkness where I stood but her eyes could not pick me out where I was, one shadow among many. After a moment, she took a long drag on her cigarette and flipped it over the rail in a shower of sparks. She went back into her chamber and shut the French doors firmly behind her.

She was the first to die, her slender neck broken as easily as a dry twig. I don’t think she had enough time to register my presence. In the next chamber, a middle-aged man, his face shocked and amazed, his fate the same as the young woman’s. I went down the back stairs silently and moved toward the voices in the salon. 

Waiting outside the room, listening to a man and a woman, speaking in low tones,I smelled fine brandy and melting beeswax. Over their voices, the dancing notes of a Corelli violin sonata floated in the warm air. They had the windows and doors flung wide to catch the breeze and beyond the house there was a change. The air smelt brassy and green and far off thunder heralded the coming of a storm. There was something more to the atmosphere about the house, a charged feeling. There were, after all, powerful people in their ranks. It was a feeling of pressure--protective workings or warding spells. None of what I felt hindered me in any way, however, and so, after listening to the pair in the salon for a little while, I made my presence known.

The woman, Joan Cross, was handsome, dignified and confident in her middle years. The man was older, nearing his later years, but hale and strong yet. He was Ambrose Stahl, Edward Marchland’s mentor. They both noticed me at the same moment and Stahl took the initiative. “Monsieur Pointe du Lac, is it?” He said. His voice was steady. I inclined my head politely. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit?”

“You needn’t worry about the social niceties, Mr. Stahl. Perhaps you have divined that my presence here does not bode well for this house." 

“How did you get in?” Joan Cross demanded. 

“Through one of the upper chambers. Are wondering why your protective bindings--your spells, did not deter me? I felt the bindings, Miss Cross, but such things have little effect it would seem.“ There are times when I feel a distinct affinity to Lestat’s absorption with mortals and the minutiae they love to surround themselves with. Passing words with them can hold a certain charm. Joan Cross rose from her chair and backed toward the hearth.  
“The poker will have little effect, you know.” I told her. “But pick it up if you think it will ease you.”

“Why have you come here?” Stahl asked.

“It is time for you to leave this house. Leave the area altogether."

“And why would we do that?” Cross asked.

I smiled gently. “I certainly do not think that you feel much inclined to cooperation, especially considering the ill-advised missive you sent to Lestat some time ago. Very rude, really. If you truly believe that David Talbot was not readily brought into his present state—that it was against his will, then you do not know very much about what sort of person he was--or is. Of course, none of this has aught to do with my visit here tonight." I took a step to the center of the room. “Your Order will vacate these premises. If you are still here tomorrow you will at the very last be investigated regarding the two dead bodies in the rooms above. That would be the least of your worries, of course."

“Dead bodies? Dead…?”

“Yes, Miss Cross. Do you believe me to have vestiges of humanity after all this time? I do not. Obviously the death of Ms. Harvey had little effect upon your recent intrusions into my existence. Now that I have caught your attention, I trust we will have no more to say to one another?”

The Cross woman came at me more forcefully than I would have imagined, the poker brandished angrily but ultimately ineffectually before her. I took it from her and hurled it with enough force to bury itself into the rosewood mantelpiece. When she threw herself at me with an inarticulate cry, I caught her easily and swiped at her throat with such speed that I knew neither of them had been able to track it. She cried out and stiffened in my embrace when I tore into the flesh of her neck—her blood welled, but did not spurt. I had not broken an artery. Still, the thick, red essence was rich and luscious on my tongue and I was hard pressed not to take her life as well. I thrust her, still bleeding, into Ambrose Stahl’s arms.

“You would do well to heed me.” I said.

**(Lestat)**

I watched from the verandah, my heart pounding forcefully in my chest. There are still those who believe him to be weak, to be the most human of all of us.

They are wrong.

He is devstatingly lethal my perfect child; my perfect love.

David has said of himself that he is, perhaps, the most dangerous of all of us with my strong and nearly undiluted ancient blood coursing through his vein. He forgets or ignores that Louis and I share this same blood, this monstrous power on a very nearly nightly basis. David is much more human than Louis ever was, even in his vampire infancy. I always knew that he would be a deadly vampire. Louis territorial—Louis protective. This is Louis lethal.

When he exited the gracious old house he came directly to where I waited for him at the gate.

“You will forgive me, love, for stealing your thunder?” He bared his fangs in a dangerous smile.

“You always surprise me, Louis. Always.”

“ We have come through the past, darkly, you and I.” 

“How I love you.”

“Show me.”

  
**FIN ******

 

_So endeth this part of the odyssey and since this _is_ an odyssey, there will be more to follow._

Next up: _The Day Would Quake_  


**Author's Note:**

> This story was written quite some time ago and though it's available in various places, I am determined to try and get all my work put up in this archive. The story has been changed slightly here and there, but the main editing was done with the aim of cleaning up some of the superfluous tangents, smoothing grammar and other such things. 
> 
> I would like to give special thanks to Stellie who has gently prodded me to move forward in editing, given me some excellent ideas for improving the tale and very kindly corrected my often execrable French or given me much better translations to get across exactly what I meant to say (ah, colloquialisms!).


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